THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  OLD  HELMET. 


BT 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  "WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD.' 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 


'  Nothing  be  fore  v  nothing  behind 

The  steps  of  Faith 
Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 
The  rock  beneath." 

WHITTIBR. 


VOL.  I. 


NEW   YORK: 
ROBERT    CARTER    &   BROTHERS. 

No.    B30   BROADWAY. 
1864. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  »no  /car  1868,  by 

ROBERT  CARTER  &  BROTHERS, 

IB  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  BUtoa  for  tb« 
Southern  District  of  New  Tork. 


Stereotyped  by  Jonx  F.  T»ow 

SMITH  £  VcDoooAL,  Printer, 

84  Beekman-it.  .'-0  Oreen«-sl. 


NOTE  TO  THE  READEK. 


The  incidents  and  testimonies  given  in  this  work 
as  matters  of  fact,  are  not  drawn  from  imagination, 
but  reported  from  excellent  authority,  though  I  have 
used  my  own  words.  And  in  the  cases  of  reported 
words  of  third  parties,  the  words  stand  unchanged, 
without  any  meddling. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE    OLD   HELMET, 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  She  loolc'd  and  sa.tr  that  all  was  ruinous, 
Here  stood  a  shattered  archway  plumed  with  fern  ; 
And  here  had  fall'n  a  great  part  of  a  tower, 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from  the  cliff, 
And  like  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding  flowers, 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair, 
"Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent, 
Bare  to  the  sun." 

THE  first  thing  noticeable  is  a  gleam  of  white  teeth. 
Now  that  is  a  pleasant  thing  generally  ;  yet  its  pleasant 
ness  depends,  after  all,  upon  the  way  the  lips  part  over 
the  ivory.  There  is  a  world  of  character  discoverable  in 
the  curve  of  those  soft  lines.  In  the  present  case,  that 
of  a  lady,  as  it  is  undoubtedly  the  very  first  thing  you 
notice,  the  matter  must  be  investigated.  The  mouth  is 
rather  large,  with  well  cut  lips  however ;  and  in  the 
smile  which  comes  not  infrequently,  the  lips  part  freely 
and  frankly,  though  not  too  far,  over  a  wealth  of  white, 
beautiful  teeth.  So  free  is  the  curve  of  the  upper  lip, 
and  so  ready  its  revelation  of  the  treasures  beneath,  that 
there  is  an  instant  suspicion  of  a  certain  frankness  and 
daring,  and  perhaps  of  a  little  mischief,  on  the  part  of 
their  possessor ;  so  free,  at  the  same  time,  as  to  forbid 
the  least  notion  of  consciousness  or  design  in  that  beau 
tiful  revelation.  But  how  fine  and  full  and  regular  are 
those  white  treasures  of  hers !  seeming  -to  speak  for  a 


6  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

strong  and  perfect  physical  organization ;  and  if  your 
eye  goes  further,  for  her  flat  hat  is  on  the  ground,  you 
will  see  in  the  bountiful  rich  head  of  hair  another  token 
of  the  same  thing.  Her  figure  is  finely  developed  ;  her 
color  clear  and  healthy  ;  not  blonde  ;  the  full  brown  hair 
and  eyes  agree  with  the  notion  of  a  nature  more  lively 
than  we  assign  to  the  other  extreme  of  complexion. 
The  features  are  not  those  of  a  beauty,  though  better 
than  that,  perhaps  ;  there  is  a  world  of  life  and  sense 
and  spirit  in  them. 

It  speaks  for  her  good  nature  and  feeling,  that  her 
smile  is  as  frank  as  ever  just  now,  and  as  pleasant  as 
ever ;  for  she  is  with  about  the  last  one  of  her  party  on 
whom  she  would  have  chosen  to  bestow  herself.  The 
occasion  is  a  visit  to  some  celebrated  ruins ;  a  day  of 
pleasure ;  and  Eleanor  would  a  good  deal  rather  be 
walking  and  talking  with  another  much  more  interesting 
member  of  the  company,  in  Avhose  society  indeed  her 
day  had  begun  ;  but  Mr.  Cai'lisle  had  been  obliged  sud 
denly  to  return  home  for  an  hour  or  two  ;  and  Eleanor 
is  sitting  on  a  grassy  bank,  with  a  gentleman  beside  her 
whom  she  knows  very  little  and  does  not  care  about  at 
all.  That  is,  she  has  no  idea  he  can  be  very  interesting  ; 
and  he  is  a  grave-looking  personage,  but  we  are  not 
going  to  describe  him  at  present. 

A  word  must  be  given  to  the  place  where  they  are 
It  is  a  little  paradise.  If  the  view  is  not  very  extended, 
.it  is  rich  in  its  parts  ;  and  the  eye  and  the  mind  are  filled! 
The  grass  is  shaven  smooth  on  the  bank  where  the  two 
are  sitting ;  so  it  is  all  around,  under  trees  which  stand 
with  wilful  Avildness  of  luxuriance,  grouped  and  scat 
tered  apparently  as  they  would.  They  are  very  old,  in 
several  varieties  of  kind,  and  in  the  perfect  development 
and  thrift  of  each  kind.  Among  them  are  the  ruins  of 
an  old  priory.  They  peep  forth  here  and  there  from  the 
trees.  One  broken  tower  stands  free,  with  ivy  masking 


THE     RUINS.  7 

its  sides  and  crumbling  top,  and  stains  of  weather  and  the 
hues  of  lichen  and  moss  enriching  what  was  once  its 
plain  grey  colour.  Other  portions  of  the  ruins  are  seen 
by  glimpses  further  on  among  the  trees.  Standing  some 
what  off  by  itself,  yet  encompassed  by  the  congeners  of 
those  same  trees,  almost  swallowed  up  among  them,  is  a 
comfortable,  picturesque  little  building,  not  in  rums; 
though  it  has  been  built  up  from  the  ruins.  It  is  the 
parsonage,  where  the  rector  of  the  parish  lives.  Beyond 
this  wood  and- these  buildings,  old  and  new,  the  eye  can 
catch  only  bits  of  hills  and  woods  that  promise  beauty 
further  on  ;  but  nearer  than  they,  and  making  a  boundary 
line  between  the  present  and  the  distant,  the  flash  of  a 
little  river  is  seen,  which  curves  about  the  old  priory 
lands.  A  somewhat  doubtful  sunlight  is  struggling  over 
it  all ;  casting  a  stray  beam  on  the  grass,  and  a  light  on 
the  ivy  of  the  old  tower. 

"  What  a  queer  old  place  it  must  have  been,"  said 
Eleanor. 

"  How  old  is  it  ?" 

"  O  I  don't  know — ages !  Do  you  mean  really  how 
old  ?  I  am  sure  I  can't  tell ;  I  never  can  keep  those 
things  in  my  head.  If  Dr.  Cairnes  would  come  out,  he 
could  tell  you  all  about  it,  and  more." 

"  Dr.  Cairnes,  the  rector  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  keeps  it  all  in  his  head,  I  know.  The  ruina 
are  instead  of  a  family  to  him." 

"They  must  date  back  pretty  far,  judging  by  those 
Norman  arches.'* 

"  Norman  arches  ? — what  those  round  ones  ?  O,  they 
do.  The  priory  was  founded  by  some  old  courtier  or 
soldier  in  the  time  of  Henry  the  First,  who  got  dis 
gusted  with  the  world.  That  is  the  beginning  of  all 
these  places,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean,  that  it  is  the  beginning  of  all  religious 
feeling  ?" 


8  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

"  I  really  think  it  is.  I  wouldn't  tell  Dr.  Cairnes  so, 
however.  How  sweet  these  violets  are.  Dear  little 
blue  things !" 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  said  the  young  man,  stooping  to 
pick  one  or  two,  "  that  they  are  less  sweet  to  me  than  to 
you?" 

"  Why  should  they  be  ?" 

"  Because,  religion  is  the  most  precious  thing  in  the 
world  to  me ;  and  by  your  rule,  I  must  be  disgusted 
with  the  world,  and  all  sweet  things  -have  lost  their 
savour." 

He  spoke  with  quiet  gravity,  and  Eleanor's  eye  went 
to  his  face  with  a  bright  glance  of  inquiry.  It  came 
back  with  no  change  of  opinion. 

"  You  don't  convert  me,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  know 
what  you  have  given  up  for  religion,  so  I  cannot  judge. 
But  all  the  other  people  I  ever  saw,  grew  religious  only 
because  they  had  lost  all  care  about  everything  else." 

"  I  wonder  how  that  discontented  old  soldier  found 
himself,  when  he  got  into  these  solitudes?"  said  the 
young  man,  with  a  smile  of  his  own  then.  It  was  sweet, 
and  a  little  arch,  and  withal  harmonized  completely  with 
the  ordinary  gravity  of  his  face,  not  denying  it  at  all. 
Eleanor  looked,  once  and  again,  with  some  curiosity, 
but  the  smile  passed  away  as  quietly  as  it  had  come. 

"  The  solitude  was  not  this  solitude  then." 

"  O  no,  it  was  very  wild." 

"  These  were  Augustine  canons,  were  they  not  ?" 

"  Who  ?" 

"  The  monks  of  this  priory." 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  I  forget.  What  was  the 
difference  ?" 

"You  know  there  were  many  orders  of  religious 
houses.  The  Augustines  were  less  severe  in  their  rule, 
and  more  genial  in  their  allowed  way  of  life,  than  most 
of  the  others  ?" 


THE     RUINS.  Q 

"  What  was  their  rule  ?" 

"  Beginning  with  discontent  of  the  world,  you  know, 
they  went  on  with  the  principle  that  nothing  worldly 
was  good." 

"  Well,  isn't  that  the  principle  of  all  religious  people 
now?" 

"  I  like  violets" — said  the  young  man,  smiling  again. 

"  But  do  tell  me,  what  did  those  old  monks  do  ? 
What  was  their  '  rule  ?'  I  don't  know  anything  about 
t,  nor  about  them." 

"  Another  old  discontented  soldier,  who  founded  an 
abbey  in  Wales,  is  said  by  the  historian  to  have  dis 
missed  all  his  former  companions,  and  devoted  himself  to 
God.  For  his  military  belt,  he  tied  a  rope  about  his 
waist ;  instead  of  fine  linen  he  put  on  haircloth.  And  it 
is  recorded  of  him,  that  the  massive  suit  of  armour  which 
he  had  been  used  to  wear  in  battle,  to  protect  him 
against  the  arrows  and  spears  and  axes  of  the  enemy, 
he  put  on  now  and  wore  as  a  defence  against  the  wiles 
and  assaults  of  the  devil — and  wore  it  till  it  rusted  away 
with  age." 

"  Poor  old  soul !"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Does  that  meet  your  ideas  of  a  religious  life  ?" 

Eleanor  laughed,  but  answered  by  another  question. 
"  Was  that  the  rule  of  all  the  Augustine  monks  ?" 

"  It  gives  the  key  to  it.  Is  that  your  notion  of  a 
religious  life  ?  You  don't  answer  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Eleanor  laughing  again,  "  it  gives  the 
key  to  it,  as  you  say.  I  do  not  suppose  you  wear  a  suit 
of  armour  to  protect  yourself." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     I  do." 

"  Armour  ?"  said  Eleanor,  looking  incredulous.  But 
her  friend  fairly  burst  into  a  little  laugh  at  that. 

"  Are  you  rested  ?"  said  he. 

And  Eleanor  got  up,  feeling  a  little  indignant  and  a 
little  curious.  Strolling  towards  the  ruins,  however 
1* 


10  THEOLUHELMKT. 

there  was  too  much  to  start  conversation  and  too  much 
to  give  delight,  to  permit  either  silence  or  pique  to  last. 
"  Isn't  it  beautiful !"  burst  from  both  at  once. 
"How  exquisite  that  ivy  is,  climbing    up  that  old 
tower !" 

"  And  what  a  pity  it  is  crumbling  away  so !"  said 
Eleanor.  "  See  that  nearer  angle — it  is  creaking  down 
fast.  I  wish  it  would  stay  as  it  is." 

"  Nothing  will  do  that  for  you.  What  is  all  that  col 
lection  of  rubbish  yonder  ?" 

"  That  is  where  Mr.  Carlisle  is  going  to  build  a  cottage 
for  one  of  his  people — somebody  to  take  care  of  the 
ruins,  I  believe." 

"  And  he  takes  the  ruins  to  build  it  with,  and  the  old 
priory  grounds  too  !" 

Eleanor  looked  again  at  her  companion. 
"  I  think  it  is  better  than  to  have  the  broken  stones 
lying  all  over — don't  you  ?" 
"  I  do  not." 

"  Mr.  Carlisle  thinks  so.  Now  here  we  are  in  the 
body  of  the  church — there  you  see  where  the  roof  went, 
by  the  slanting  lines  on  the  tower  wall ;  and  we  are 
standing  wnere  the  congregation  used  to  assemble." 

"  Not  much  of  a  congregation,"  said  her  companion. 
"  The  neighbouring  country  furnished  few  attendants,  I 
fancy  ;  the  old  monks  and  their  retainers  were  about  all. 
The  choir  would  hold  most  of  them  ;  the  nave,  where 
we  are  standing,  would  have  been  of  little  use  except  for 
processions." 

"  Processions  ?"  said  Eleanor. 

"  On  particular  days  there  were  processions  of  the 
bi'otherhood,  with  lighted  candles — round  and  round  in 
the  churcn.  In  the  church  at  York  twelve  rounds  made 
a  mile,  and  there  were  twelve  holes  at  the  great  door, 
with  a  little  peg,  so  that  any  one  curious  about  the  mat 
ter  might  reckon  the  miles." 


THE     RUINS.  11 

"  And  so  they  used  to  go  up  and  down  here,  burning 
their  fingers  with  melted  tallow  !"  said  Eleanor.  "  Poor 
creatures !  What  a  melancholy  existence !  Are  you 
preparing  to  renounce  the  world  yourself,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

He  smiled,  but  it  was  a  compound  smile,  light  and 
earnest  both  at  once,  which  Eleanor  did  not  comprehend. 

"  Why  do  you  suspect  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  You  seem  to  be  studying  the  thing.  Are  you  going 
to  be  a  white  or  a  black  monk — or  a  grey  friar?" 

"  There  is  a  prior  question.  It  is  coming  on  to  rain, 
MissPowle." 

"  Rain !  It  is  beginning  this  minute  !  And  all  the 
umbrellas  are  nobody  knows  where — only  that  it  is 
where  we  ought  to  be..  I  was  glad  just  now  that  the  old 
roof  is  gone — but  I  think  I  would  like  a  piece  6f  it  back." 

"  You  can  take  shelter  at  the  parsonage." 

"  No,  I  cannot — they  have  got  fever  there." 

"  Then  come  with  me.  I  believe  I  can  find  you  a  piece 
of  roof  somewhere." 

Eleanor  smiled  to  herself  that  he  should  think  so,  as 
all  traces  of  beam  and  rafter  had  long  since  disappeared 
from  the  priory  and  its  dependencies.  However  she 
followed  her  conductor,  who  strode  along  among  the 
ruins  at  a  pace  which  it  taxed  her  powers  to  keep  up 
with.  Presently  he  plunged  down  into  a  wilderness  of 
bushes  and  wild  thorn  and  piled  up  stones  which  the 
crumbling  Avails  had  left  in  confusion  strewn  over  the 
ground.  It  was  difficult  walking.  Eleanor  had  never 
been  there ;  for  in  that  quarter  the  decay  of  the  build 
ings  was  more  entire,  and  the  growth  of  shrubs  and 
brambles  had  been  allowed  to  mask  the  disorder.  As 
they  went  on,  the  footing  grew  very  rough ;  they  were 
obliged  to  go  over  heaps  and  layers  of  the  crumbling, 
moss-grown  ruins.  Eleanor's  conductor  turned  and 
gave  hex  his  hand  to  help  ;  it  was  a  strong  hand  and 
'quickened  her  progress.  Presently  turning  a  sharp 


12  THE     OLD     HELM  EX. 

corner,  through  a  thicket  of  thorn  and  holly  bushes, 
with  young  larches  and  beeches,  a  small  space  of  clear 
ance  was  gained,  bounded  on  the  other  side  by  a  thick 
wall,  one  angle  of  which  was  standing.  On  this  clear 
spot  the  rain  drops  were  falling  fast.  The  hand  that 
held  Eleanor's  hurried  her  across  it,  to  where  an  old 
window  remained  sunk  in  the  wall.  The  arch  over  the 
window  was  still  entire,  and  as  the  wall  was  one  of  the 
outer  walls  and  very  thick,  the  shelter  of  a  "piece  of  roof" 
was  literally  afforded.  Eleanor's  conductor  seated  her 
on  the  deep  window  sill,  where  she  was  perfectly 
screened  from  the  rain  ;  and  apologizing  for  the  neces 
sity  of  the  occasion,  took  his  place  beside  her.  The 
window  was  narrow  as  well  as  deep ;  and  the  two,  who 
hardly  knew  each  other,  were  brought  into  very  familiar 
neighbourhood.  Eleanor  would  have  been  privately 
amused,  if  the  first  passing  consciousness  of  amusement 
had  not  been^  immediately  chased  away  by  one  or  two 
other  thoughts.  The  first  was  the  extreme  beauty  of 
her  position  as  a  point  of  view. 

The  ruins  were  all  behind  them.  As  they  looked  out 
of  the  window,  nothing  was  seen  but  the  most  exquisite 
order  and  the  most  dainty  perfection  of  nature.  The 
ground,  shaven  and  smooth,  sloped  away  down  to  a 
fringe  of  young  wood,  amidst  which  peeped  out  a  pretty 
cottage  and  above  which  a  curl  of  smoke  floated.  The 
cottage  stood  so  low,  and  the  trees  were  so  open,  that 
above  and  beyond  appeared  the  receding  slopes  and  hills 
of  the  river  valley,  in  their  various  shades  of  colour,  grass 
and  foliage.  There  was  no  sun  on  all  this  now,  but  a 
beautiful  light  under  the  rain  cloud  from  the  distant 
horizon.  And  the  dark  old  stone  window  was  the  frame 
for  this  picture.  It  was  very  perfect.  It  was  very  rare. 
Eleanor  exclaimed  in  delight. 

"But  I  never  was  here — I  never  saw  this  before  1 
How  did  you  know  of  it,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 


TUEKUINS.  13 

**  I  have  studied  the  ruins,"  he  said  lightly. 

"  But  you  have  ""  been  at  Wiglands  only  a  few 
months." 

"  I  come  here  very  often,"  he  answered.  "  Happily 
for  you." 

He  might  add  that  well  enough,  for  the  clouds  poured 
down  their  rain  now  in  torrents,  or  in  sheets  :  the  lisrht 

*  7  O 

which  had  come  from  the  horizon  a  few  minutes  before 
was  hidden,  and  the  grey  gloom  of  a  summer  storm,  was 
over  everything.  The  little  window  seemed  dark,  with 
the  two  people  sitting  there.  Then  there  came  a  blind 
ing  flash  of  lightning.  Eleanor  started  and  cowered, 
and  the  thunder  rolled  its  deep  tones  over  them,  and 
under  them,  for  the  earth  shook.  She  raised  her  head 
again,  but  only  to  shrink  back  the  second  time,  when  the 
lightning  and  the  thunder  were  repeated.  This  time  her 
head  was  not  raised  again,  and  she  kept  her  hand  cov 
ered  over  her  eyes.  Yet  whenever  the  sound  of  the 
thunder  came,  Eleanor's  frame  answered  it  by  a  start. 
She  said  nothing  ;  it  was  merely  the  involuntary  answer 
of  the  nerves.  The  storm  was  a  severe  one,  and  when 
the  severity  of  it  passed  a  little  further  off,  the  torrents 
of  rain  still  fell. 

"You  do  not  like  thunder  storms" — Mr.  Rhys  re 
marked,  when  the  lightnings  had  ceased  to  be  so  vivid  or 
so  near. 

"  Does  anybody  like  them  ?" 

"  Yes.     I  like  everything." 

"  You  are  happy" — said  Eleanor. 

"  Why  are  not  you  ?" 

"  I  can't  -help  it,"  said  the  girl,  lifting  up  her  head, 
though  she  did  not  let  her  eyes  go  out  of  the  window. 
"  I  cannot  bear  to  see  the  lightning.  It  is  foolish,  but  I 
cannot  help  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  foolish  ?  Is  there  not  some  rea« 
son  at  the  bottom  of  it  ?" 


14  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

"  I  think  there  is  a  reason,  though  still  it  is  foolish , 
There  was  a  man  killed  by  lightning  just  by  our  door, 
once—when  I  was  a  child.  I  saw  him — I  never  can 
forget  it,  never !" 

And  a  sort  of  shudder  ran  over  Eleanor's  shoulders  as 
she  spoke. 

"  You  want  my  armour,"  said  her  companion.  The 
tone  of  voice  was  not  only  grave  but  sympathizing. 
Eleanor  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Your  armour  ?" 

"  You  charged  me  with  wearing  armour — and  I  con 
fessed  it,"  he  said  with  something  of  a  smile.  "  It  is  a 
sort  of  armour  that  makes  people  safe  in  all  circum 
stances." 

He  looked  so  quiet,  so  grave,  so  cool,  and  his  eye  had 
such  a  light  in  it,  that  Eleanor  could  not  throw  off  his 
words.  He  looked  like  a  man  in  armour.  But  no  mail 
of  brass  was  to  be  seen. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  said. 

"  Did  you  never  hear  of  the  helmet  of  salvation  ?'1 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Eleanor  wonderingly.  "  I 
think  I  have  heard  the  words.  I  do  not  think  I  ever 
attached  any  meaning  to  them." 

"  Did  you  never  feel,"  he  said,  speaking  with  a 
peculiar  deliberation  of  manner,  "  that  you  were  ex 
posed  to  danger — and  to  death — from  which  no  effort 
of  yours  could  free  you ;  and  that  after  death,  there  is  a 
great  white  throne  to  meet,  for  which  you  are  not 
ready?" 

While  he  spoke  slowly,  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Eleanor  with  a  clear  piercing  glance  Avhich  .she  felt  read 
her  through  and  through  ;  but  she  was  fascinated  instead 
of  angered,  and  submitted  her  own  eyes  to  the  reading 
without  wishing  to  turn  them  away.  Carrying  on  two 
trains  of  thought  at  the  same  time,  as  the  mind  will,  her 
inward  reflection  was,  "  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  so 


THEKUINS.  15 

good-looking !" — the  answer  in  words  was  a  sober,  "  I 
have  felt  so." 

"  Was  the  feeling  a  happy  one  ?" 

Eleanor's  lip  suddenly  trembled ;  then  she  put  down 
that  involuntary  natural  answer,  and  said  evasively, 
looking  out  of  the  window,  "  I  suppose  everybody  has 
such  feelings  sometimes." 

"  Not  with  that  helmet  on" — said  her  companion. 

With  all  the  quietness  of  his  speech,  and  it  was  very 
unitnpassioned,  his  accent  had  a  clear  ring  to  it,  which 
came  from  some  unsounded  spirit-depth  of  power  ;  and 
Eleanor's  heart  for  a  moment  sunk  before  it  in  a  secret 
convulsion  of  pain.  She  concealed  this  feeling,  as  she 
thought,  successfully ;  but  that  single  ray  of  light  had 
shewed  her  the  darkness  ;  it  was  keen  as  an  arrow,  and 
the  arrow  rankled.  And  her  neighbour's  next  wordi 
made  her  feel  that  her  heart  lay  bare ;  so  quietly  the) 
touched  it. 

"  You  feel  that  you  want  something,  Miss  Powle." 

Eleanor's  head  drooped,  as  well  as  her  heart.  St* 
Avpndered  at  herself;  but  there  was  a  spell  of  powei 
upon  her,  and  she  could  by  no  means  lift  up  either.  It 
was  not  only  that  his  words  were  true,  but  that  he  knew 
them  to  be  so. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  want  ?"  her  friend  went  on. 
in  tones  that  were  tender,  along  with  that  deliberate 
utterance  that  carried  so  much  force  with  it.  "  You  know 
yourself  an  offender  before  the  Lord — and  you  want  the 
sense  of  forgiveness  in  your  heart.  You  know  yourself 
inclined  to  be  an  offender  again — and  you  want  the  re 
newing  grace  of  God  to  make  your  heart  clean,  and  set 
it  free  from  the  power  of  sin.  Then  you  want  also  some 
thing  to  make  you  happy ;  and  the  love  of  Jesus  alone 
can  do  that." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  telling  over  the  things  one  has 
not  got  ?" — said  Eleanor  in  somewhat  smothered  tones. 


16  THE     OLD      HELMKT. 

The  words  of  her  companion  came  again  clear  as  a 
bell— 

"  Because  you  may  have  them  if  you  want  them." 

Eleanor  struggled  with  herself,  for  her  self-possession 
was  endangered,  and  she  was  angry  at  herself  for  being 
such  a  fool ;  but  she  could  not  help  it ;  yet  she  would 
not  let  her  agitation  come  any  more  to  the  surface.  She 
waited  for  clearness  of  voice,  and  then  could  not  forbear 
the  question, 

"  How,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"Jesus  said,  'If  any  man  thirst,  let  him  come  unto 
me  and  drink.'  There  is  all  fulness  in  him.  Go  to  him 
for  light — go  to  him  for  strength — go  to  him  for  forgive 
ness,  for  healing,  for  sanctification.  '  Whosoever  will, 
let  him  take  of  the  water  of  life  freely.' " 

"  '  Go  to  him  ?' "  repeated  Eleanor  vaguely. 

"  Ask  him." 

Ask  Him  !  It  was  such  a  far-off,  strange  idea  to-  her 
heart,  there  seemed  such  a  universe  of  distance  between, 
Eleanor's  face  grew  visibly  shadowed  with  the  thought. 
She  f  She  could  not.  She  did  not  know  how.  She 
was  silent  a  little  while.  The  subject  was  getting  un 
manageable. 

"  I  never  had  anybody  talk  to  me  so  before,  Mr. 
Rhys,"  she  said,  thinking  to  let  it  pass. 

"  Perhaps  you  never  will  again,"  he  said.  "  Hear  it 
now.  The  Lord  Jesus  is  not  far  off — as  you  think — he 
is  very  near ;  he  can  hear  the  faintest  whisper  of  a  peti 
tion  that  you  send  to  him.  It  is  his  message  I  bring 
you  to-day— a  message  to  you.  I  am  his  servant,  and 
he  has  given  me  this  charge  for  you  to-day — to  tell  you 
that  he  loves  you — that  he  has  given  his  life  for  yours — 
and  that  he  calls  Eleanor  Powle  to  give  him  her  heart, 
and  then  to  give  him  her  life  ;  in  all  the  obedience  his 
service  may  require." 

Eleanor  felt  her  heart  strangely  bowed,  subdued,  bent 


IN    THE     RUINS.  17 

to  his  words.  "  I  will" — was  the  secret  language  of  her 
thoughts — "  but  I  must  not  let  this  man  see  all  I  am 
feeling ;  if  I  can  help  it."  She  held  herself  still,  looking 
out  of  the  window,  where  the  rain  fell  in  torrents  yet, 
though  the  thunder  and  the  lightning  were  no  longer 
near.  So  did  he ;  he  added  no  more  to  his  last  words, 
and  a  silence  lasted  in  the  old  ruined  window  as  if  its 
chance  occupants  were  gone  again.  As  the  silence  lasted, 
Eleanor  felt  it  grow  awkward.  She  was  at  a  loss  how 
to  break  it.  It  was  broken  for  her  then. 

"  What  will  you  do,  Miss  Powle  ?" 

"  I  will  think  about  it" — she  answered,  startled  and 
hesitating. 

"  How  long,  before  you  decide  ?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?"  she  said. 

"  You  are  shrinking  from  a  decision  already  formed. 
The  answer  is  given  in  your  secret  thoughts,  and  some 
thing  is  rising  up  in  the  midst  of  them  to  thwart  it. 
Shall  I  tell  my  Master  that  his  message  is  refused  ?" 

"  Mr.  Rhys !"  said  Eleanor  looking  up,  "  I  never  heard 
any  one  talk  so  in  ah1  my  life !  You  speak  as  if " 

"As  if,  what?" 

"  You  speak  as  if 1  never  heard  any  one  speak  as 

you  do." 

"  I  speak  as  if  I  were  in  the  habit  of  telling  my  Mas 
ter  how  his  message  is  received  ?  I  often  do  that." 

"  But  it  seems  superfluous  to  tell  what  is  known 
already,"  said  Eleanor,  wondering  secretly  much  more 
than  she  dared  to  say  at  her  companion's  talk. 

"  Do  you  never,  in  speaking  to  those  you  love,  tell 
them  what  is  no  information  ? 

Eleanor  was  now  dumb.  There  was  too  great  a  gulf 
of  difference  between  her  companion  and  herself,  to  try 
to  frame  any  words  or  thoughts  that  might  bridge  it 
over.  She  must  remain  on  one  side  and  he  on  the  other ; 
yet  she  went  on  wondering. 


18  THE     OLD     H  ELMKT. 

*'  Are  you  a  clergyman,  Mr.  Rhys  ?"  she  said  after  a 
pause. 

"  I  am  not  what  you  would  call  such  ?" 

"  Do  you  not  think  the  rain  is  over  ?" 

"  Nearly,  for  the  present ;  but  the  grass  is  as  wet  as 
possible." 

"  O,  I  don't  mind  that.  There  is  somebody  now  in 
the  shrubbery  yonder,  looking  for  me." 

"He  will  not  find  you  here,"  said  Mr.  Rhys.  "I 
have  this  window  all  to  myself.  But  we  will  find  him." 

The  rain-drops  fell  now  but  scatteringly,  the  last  of  the 
shower  ;  the  sun  was  breaking  out,  and  the  green  world 
was  all  in  a  glitter  of  wet  leaves.  Wet  as  they  were, 
Eleanor  and  Mr.  Rhys  pushed  through  the  thick  bram 
ble  and  holly  bushes,  which  with  honeysuckles,  eglan 
tine,  and  broom,  and  bryony,  made  a  sweet  wild  wilder 
ness.  They  got  plentifully  besprinkled  in  their  way, 
shook  that  off  as  well  as  they  could,  and  with  quick 
steps  sought  to  rejoin  their  companions.  The  person 
Eleanor  had  seen  in  the  shrubbeiy  was  the  first  one 
found,  as  Mr.  Rhys  had  said.  It  was  Mr.  Carlisle.  He 
at  once  took  charge  of  Eleanor. 

"  What  has  become  of  you  ?" 

"  What  has  become  of  you,  Mr.  Cai'lisle  ?"  Eleanor's 
gleaming  smile  was  as  bright  as  ever. 

"Despair,  nearly,"  said  he;  "for  I  feared  business 
would  hold  me  all  day ;  but  I  broke  away.  Not  time 
enough  to  protect  you  from  this  shower." 

"  Water  will  wet,"  said  Eleanor,  laughing ;  for  the 
politeness  of  this  speech  was  more  evident  than  its  plau 
sibility.  She  was  on  the  point  of  speaking  of  the  pro 
tection  that  had  been  actually  found  for  her,  but  thought 
better  of  it.  Meantime  they  were  joined  by  a  little  girl, 
bright  and  rather  wild  looking,  who  addressed  Eleanor 
as  her  sister. 

"  O  come !"  she  said, — "where  have  you  been  ?     We 


IN    THE     E  U  INS.  18 

can't  go  on  till  you  come.  We  are  going  to  lunch  at 
Barton's  Tower — and  mamma  says  she  will  make 
Mr.  Carlisle  build  a  fire,  so  that  we  may  all  dry  our 
selves." 

"  Julia  ! — how  you  speak !" 

"  She  did  say  so,"  repeated  the  child.  '.'  Come — make 
haste." 

Eleanor  glanced  at  her  companion,  who  met  the  glance 
with  a  smile.  "  I  hope  Mrs.  Powle  will  always  com 
mand  me,"  he  said,  somewhat  meaningly  ;  and  Eleanor 
hurried  on. 

She  was  destined  to  long  tete-d-tetes  that  day ;  for  as 
soon  as  her  little  party  was  seen  in  the  distance,  the 
larger  company  took  up  their  line  of  march  again.  Julia 
and  Mr.  Rhys  had  fallen  behind  ;  and  the  long  walk  to 
Barton's  Tower  was  made  with  Mr.  Carlisle  alone,  who 
was  in  no  haste  to  abridge  it,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  him 
self  very  well.  Eleanor  once  or  twice  looked  back,  and 
saw  her  little  sister,  hand  in  hand  with  her  companion 
of  the  old  window,  walking  and  talking  in  very  eager 
and  gay  style  ;  to  judge  by  Julia's  lively  movements. 

"  Who  is  that  Mr.  Rhys  ?"  said  Eleanor. 

"  I  have  hardly  the  honour  to  know  him.  May  I  ask, 
why  you  ask  ?" 

"  He  is  peculiar,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  He  can  hardly  be  worthy  your  study."  And  the 
question  was  dismissed  with  a  coolness  which  reminded 
Eleanor  of  Mr.  Rhys's  own  words,  that  he  was  not  what 
she  would  call  a  clergyman.  She  would  have  asked 
another  question,  but  the  slight  disdain  which  spoke  in 
Mr.  Carlisle's  eye  and  voice  deterred  her.  She  only 
noticed  how  well  the  object  of  it  and  her  sister  were 
getting  along.  However,  Eleanor's  own  walk  was  plea 
sant  enough  to  drive  Mr.  Rhys  out  of  her  head.  Mr. 
Carlisle  was  polished,  educated,  spirited,  and  had  the 
great  additional  advantage  of  being  a  known  and  ascer- 


20  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

tained  somebody ;  as  he  was  in  fact  the  heir  of  all  the 
fine  domain  whose  beauties  they  were  admiring.  And  a 
beautiful  heirdom  it  was.  The  way  taken  by  the  party 
led  up  the  'course  of  a  valley  which  followed  the  wind 
ings  of  a  small  stream ;  its  sides  most  romantic  and 
woody  in  some  places ;  in  others  taking  the  very  mould 
of  gentle  beauty,  and  covered  with  rich  grass,  and  sweet 
with  broom  ;  in  others  again,  drawing  near  together, 
and  assuming  a  picturesque  wildness,  rocky  and  broken. 
Sweet  flowers  grew  by  the  way  in  profusion,  on  the 
banks  and  along  the  sides  of  the  stream  ;  and  the  birds 
were  very  jocund  in  their  solitudes.  Through  all  this  it 
was  very  pleasant  wandering  with  the  heir  of  the  land  ; 
and  neither  wet  shoes  nor  wet  shoulders  were  much  re 
membered  by  Eleanor  till  they  reached  Barton's  Tower. 

This  was  a  ruin  of  a  different  character ;  one  of  the 
old  strongholds  of  the  rough  time  when  men  lived  by 
the  might  of  hand.  No  delicate  arches  and  graceful 
mouldings  had  ever  been  here ;  ah1  was,  or  had  been, 
grim,  stern  strength  and  massiveness.  The  strength 
was  broken  long  ago  ;  and  grace,  in  the  shape  of  clus 
tering  ivy,  had  mantled  so  much  of  the  harsh  outlines 
that  their  original  impression  was  lost.  It  could  be  re 
called  only  by  a  little  abstraction.  Within  the  enclosure 
of  the  thick  walls,  which  in  some  places  gave  a  sort  of 
crypt-like  shelter,  the  whole  rambling  party  was  now 
collected. 

"Shall  we  have  a  fire?"  Mr.  Carlisle  had  asked 
Eleanor,  just  before  they  entered.  And  Eleanor  could 
not  find  in  her  heart  to  deny  that  it  would  be  good, 
though  not  quite  prepared  to  have  it  made  to  her  order. 
However,  the  word  was  given.  Wood  was  brought, 
and  presently  a  roaring  blaze  went  up  within  the  old 
walls ;  not  where  the  old  chimney  used  to  be,  for  there 
were  no  traces  of  such  a  thing.  The  sun  had  not  shined 
bright  enough  to  do  away  the  mischief  the  shower  had 


I  N     T  H  E     B  U  I  N  S  .  21 

done ;  and  now  the  ladies  gathered  about  the  blaze,  and 
declared  it  was  very  comfortable.  Eleanor  sat  down  on 
a  stone  by  the  side  of  the  fire,  willing  to  be  less  in  the 
foreground  for  a  little  while ;  as  well  as  to  dry  her  wet 
shoes.  From  there  she  had  a  view  of  the  scene  that 
would  have  pleased  a  painter. 

The  blazing  fire  threw  a  warm  light  and  colour  of  its 
own  upon  the  dark  walls  and  on  the  various  groups  col 
lected  within  them,  and  touched  mosses  and  ferns  and 
greensward  with  its  gypsy  glare.  The  groups  were 
not  ah1  of  one  character.  There  was  a  light-hued  gay 
company  of  muslins  and  scarfs  around  the  burning  pile ; 
in  a  corner  a  medley  of  servants  and  baskets  and 
hampers ;  and  in  another  corner  Eleanor  watched  Julia 
and  Mr.  Rhys  ;  the  latter  of  whom  was  executing  some 
adventurous  climbing,  after  a  flower  probably,  or  a  fern, 
while  Julia  stood  below  eagerly  following  his  progress. 
Mr.  Carlisle  was  all  about.  It  was  a  singularly  pretty 
scene,  and  to  Eleanor's  eye  it  had  the  sharp  painting 
which  is  given  by  a  little  secret  interest  at  work.  That 
interest  gave  particular  relief  to  the  figures  of  the  two 
gentlemen  whose  names  have  been  mentioned ;  the  other 
figures,  the  dark  walls  and  ivy,  the  servants  and  the 
preparing  collation,  were  only  a  rich  mosaic  of  back 
ground  for  those  two. 

There  was  Mr.  Powle,  a  sturdy,  well-to-do,  country 
gentleman  ;  looking  it,  and  looking  besides  good-natured, 
which  he  was  if  not  crossed.  There  was  Eleanor's 
mother,  good-natured  under  all  circumstances ;  fair  and 
handsome;  every  inch  of  her,  from,  the  close  fair  curls 
on  each  side  of  her  temples,  to  the  tips  of  her  neat 
walking  shoes,  shewing  the  ample  perfection  of  abundant 
means  and  indulgent  living.  There  were  some  friends 
that  formed  part  of  their  household  just  then,  and  the 
young  people  of  a  neighbouring  family ;  with  the  Misa 
Broadus's ;  two  elderly  ladies  from  the  village  who  were 


22  T  H  E     O  L  D     II  K  L  M  E  T  . 

always  in  everything.  There  was  Dr.  Cairnes  the  rector, 
and  his  sister,  a  widow  lady  who  spent  part  of  every 
year  with  him.  All  these  Eleanor's  eye  passed  over 
with  slight  heed,  and  busied  itself  furtively  with  the 
remaining  two ;  the  great  man  of  the  party,  and  the 
other,  the  one  certainly  of  least  consideration  in  it. 
Why  did  she  look  at  him,  Eleanor  asked  herself?  Mr. 
Carlisle  was  a  mark  for  everybody's  eyes  ;  a  very  hand 
some  man,  the  future  lord  of  the  manor,  knowing  and 
using  gracefully  his  advantages  of  many  kinds.  What 
had  the  other, — that  tall,  quiet  man,  gathering  flowers 
with  Julia  in  the  angle  of  the  old  tower?  He  could  not 
be  called  handsome ;  a  dark  thick  head  of  hair,  and 
somewhat  marked  features  alone  distinguished  him ; 
except  a  pair  of  very  clear  keen  eyes,  the  penetrating 
quality  of  which  Eleanor  had  felt  that  morning.  "  He 
has  a  good  figure,  though,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  a  very 
good  figure — and  he  moves  well  and  easily ;  but  what 
is  there  about  him  to  make  me  think  of  him  ?  What 
is  the  difference  between  his  face  and  that  other  face  ?" 

"  That  other  face"  made  frequent  appeals  for  her 
attention  ;  yet  Eleanor  could  not  forget  the  group  in  the 
corner,  where  her  sister  seemed  to  be  having  a  time  of 
more  lively  enjoyment  than  any  one  else  of  the  com 
pany.  No  other  person  paid  them  any  attention,  even 
in  thought;  and  when  the  collation  was  spread,  Eleanor 
half  wondered  that  her  morning's  friend  neithei  came 
forward  nor  was  for  some  moments  asked  to  do  so. 
She  thought  indeed  she  heard  Julia  ask  him,  but  if  so  it 
was  without  effect.  .Mr.  Rhys  remained  in  the  distant 
angle,  studying  the  stones  there ;  till  Mr.  Powle  shouted 
to  him  and  brought  him  into  the  company.  Having 
done  this  good  action,  the  squire  felt  benevolently  dis 
posed  towards  the  object  of  his  care,  and  entered  into 
conversation  with  him.  It  grew  so  satisfactory  to  Mr. 
Powle,  that  it  absorbed  his  attention  from  all  but  the 


INTHEBUINS.  23 

meats  and  wines  which  were  offered  him,  the  enjoyment 
of  which  it  prpbably  heightened  ;  the  talk  was  pro 
longed,  and  seemed  to  grow  more  interesting  as  it  went 
on.  Eleanor  could  not  hear  what  it  was  about,  her  own 
ear  was  so  much  engaged  with  business  nearer  at  hand. 
The  whole  play  had  not  escaped  her,  however ;  and 
between  question  and  answer  of  the  rattling  gayety  going 
on  about  her  ears,  and  indeed  on  her  own  tongue,  she 
found  time  to  wonder  whether  Mr.  Rhys  were  shy,  or 
kept  back  by  a  feeling  of  inferiority ;  so  marked  his 
conduct  was  by  the  absence  of  all  voluntary  self-asser 
tion.  She  could  not  determine  that  he  was  either.  No 
look  or  word  favoured  the  one  or  the  other  supposition. 
And  Eleanor  could  not  look  at  those  keen  eyes,  without 
feeling  that  it  was  extremely  unlikely  they  would  quail 
before  anybody  or  anything.  Very  different  from  those 
fine  hazel  irids  that  were  flashing  fun  and  gallantry  into 
hers  with  every  glance.  Very  different ;  but  what  was 
the  difference  ?  It  was  something  deeper  than  colour 
and  contour.  Eleanor  had  no  chance  to  make  further 
discoveries  ;  for  her  father  engrossed  his  new  acquaint 
ance  all  the  \vay  home,  and  only  did  not  bring  him  to 
Ivy  Lodge  to  tea  because  Mr.  Rhys  refused  it ;  for  the 
invitation  was  given. 


CHAPTER    II. 

"  To  die — to  sleep. 

To  sleep  1  perchance  to  dream ;  ay,  there's  the  rub , 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come" — 

THE  family  at  Ivy  Lodge  gathered  round  the  tea-table 
with  spirits  rather  whetted,  apparently,  for  both  talking 
and  eating.  Certainly  the  one  exercise  had  been  inter 
mitted  for  some  hours ;  the  other  however  had  gone 
on  without  cessation.  It  went  on  still.  The  party  was 
now  reduced  to  the  home  party,  with  the  addition 
of  Miss  Broadus ;  wTiich  lady,  with  her  sister,  was  at 
home  at  Ivy  Lodge,  as  she  was  everywhere  else.  El 
derly,  respectable  and  respected  old  ladies  they  were; 
and  though  they  dealt  in  gossip,  would  not  willingly 
have  hurt  a  fly.  They  dealt  in  receipts  and  in  jellies  too ; 
in  fashions,  and  in  many  kindnesses,  both  received  and 
given  by  all  the  neighbourhood.  They  were  daughters 
of  a  former  rector  of  the  parish,  and  poor,  and  asked 
nobody  to  help  them ;  which  indeed  they  had  no  need 
to  ask.  * 

"  You  seemed  to  like  your  afternoon's  acquaintance, 
papa  ?"  said  Eleanor. 

"  He  is  a  fine  fellow,"  said  the  squire.  "  He's  a  fine 
fellow.  Knows  something.  My  dear,  he  teaches  a 
small  school  at  Wiglands,  I  hear." 

"Does  he.  I  wonder  who  goes  to  it,"  said  Mrs 
Powle. 


AT     THE     GARDEN-DOOR.  25 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  squire ;  "  but  I  mean  to 
send  Alfred." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Powle !  to  such  a  school  as  that  ? 
Nobody  can  go  to  it  but  some  of  the  farmers'  children 
around — there  is  no  one  else." 

"  It  won't  hurt  him,  for  a  little  while,"  said  the  squire. 
"  I  like  the  master,  and  that's  of  more  importance  than 
the  children.  Don't  you  worry." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Powle !  But  I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing  in  my  life.  I  do  not  believe  Dr.  Cairnes  will  like 
it  at  all.  He  will  think  it  very  strange,  your  sending 
your  boy  to  a  man  that  is  not  a  Churchman,  and  is  not 
anything,  that  anybody  knows  of." 

"  Dr.  Cairnes  be  hanged !"  said  the  squire, — "  and  mind 
his  own  affairs.  Ho  wouldn't  want  me  to  send  Alfred 
to  him."  » 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Powle,"  said  Miss  Broadus,  "I  cac 
tell  you  this  for  your  comfort — there  are  two  sons  of 
Mr.  Churchill,  the  Independent  minister  of  Eastcombe — 
that  come  over  to  him ;  besides  one  or  two  more  that 
are  quite  respectable." 

"  Why  does  not  Mr.  Churchill  send  his  boys  to  school 
at  Eastcoihbe  ?" 

"  O  well,  it  doesn't  suit  him,  I  suppose ;  and  like  goes 
to  like,  you  know,  my  dear." 

"  That  is  what  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Powle,  looking  at 
her  husband, — "and  I  wonder  Mr.  Powle  does  not  think 
so  ^too."  . 

"  If  you  mean  me,"  said  the  squire,  "  I  am  not  '  like' 
anybody — that  I  can  tell  you.  A  good  schoolmaster  is 
a  good  schoolmaster — I  don't  care  what  else  he  calls 
himself." 

"  And  Mr.  Rhys  is  a  good  schoolmaster,  I  have  no 
iloubt,"  said  Miss  Broadus. 

"  I  know  what  he  is,"  said  Julia ;  "  he  is  a  nice  man, 
:  like  him." 

2 


26  T  II  E     O  L  1)     II  E  L  M  E  T  . 

"  I  saw  he  kept  you  quiet,"  said  Eleanor.  "  How  did 
he  manage  it  ?" 

"  He  didn't  manage  it.  He  told  me  about  things," 
said  Julia ;  "  and  he  got  flowers  for  me,  and  told  me 
about  ferns.  You  never  saw  such  lovely  ferns  as  we 
found  ;  and  you  would  not  know  where  to  look  for 
them,  either.  I  never  saw  such  a  nice  man  as  Mr.  Rhys 
in  my  life." 

"  There,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "do  not  encourage 
Julia  in  talking.  She  is  always  too  ready." 

"  T  am  going  to  walk  with  him  again,  to  get  flowers,'' 
said  the  child. 

"  I  shall  invite  him  to  the  Lodge,"  said  the  squire. 
"  He  is  a  very  sensible  man,  and  knows  what  he  is 
about." 

"Do  you  know  anything  more  about  him,  Mr. 
Powle  ?" 

"  He  does  more  than  teach  three  or  four  boys,"  said 
Miss  Broadus.  "He  serves  a  little  Dissenting  Chapel  of 
some  sort,  over  at  Lily  Vale." 

"  Why  does  he  not  live  there  then  ?"  said  Mrs.  Powle. 
"  Lily  Vale  is  two  and  a  half  miles  oif.  Not  very  con 
venient,  I  should  think."  • 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear.  Perhaps  he  finds  living 
cheap  at  Wiglands,  and  I  am  sure  he  may.  Do  you 
know,  I  get  butter  for  less  than  one-half  what  I  paid 
when  I  was  in  Leicester  ?" 

"  It  is  summer  time  now,  Miss  Broadus,"  said  the 
squire. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  still — I  am  sure  Wiglands  is  the 
nicest,  easiest  place  for  poor  people  to  live,  that  ever 
was." 

"  Why  you  are  not  poor,  Miss  Broadus,"  said  the 
squire. 

Miss  Broadus  chuckled.  The  fact  was,  that  the  Miss 
Broadus's  not  being  poor  was  a  standing  pleasant  joke 


AT     THE     GAR  DEN-DOOR.  2V 

with  them ;  it  being  well  known  that  they  were  not 
largely  supplied  with  means,  but  contrived  to  make  a 
little  do  the  apparent  work  of  much  more  than  they 
had.  A  way  of  achieving  respectability  upon  which 
they  prided  themselves. 

"  Eleanor,"  said  her  mother  as  they  left  the  table, 
"  you  look  pale.  Did  you  get  your  feet  wet  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma — there  was  no  helping  that." 

"  Then  you'll  be  laid  up  !" 

"  She  must  not,  just  now,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Broadus 
smilingly. 

Eleanor  could  not  laugh  off  the  prophecy,  which  an 
internal  warning  told  her  was  well  founded.  She  wen-t 
to  bed  thinking  of  Mr.  Rhys's  helmet.  She  did  not  know 
why  ;  she  was  not  given  to  such  thoughts  ;  neither  did 
she  comprehend  exactly  what  the  helmet  might  be  ;  yet 
now  the  tttought  came  uneasily  across  her  mind,  that 
just  such  a  cold  as  she  had  taken  had  been  many  a  one's 
death ;  and  with  that  came  a  strange  feeling  of  unpro- 
tectedness — of  want  of  defence.  It  was  very  uncom 
fortable  to  go  to  bed  with  that  slight  sensation  of  sore 
throat  and  feverishness,  and  to  remember  that  the  begin 
ning  of  multitudes  of  last  sicknesses  had  been  no  other 
and  no  greater  ;  and  it  was  most  unlike  Eleanor  to  have 
such  a  cause  make  her  uncomfortable.  She  charged  it 
upon  the  conversation  of  the  morning,  and  supposed 
herself  nervous  or  feverish  ;  but  this,  if  an  explanation, 
was  no  cure;  and  through  the  frequent  wakings  of  a 
disturbed  night,  the  thought  of.  that  piece  of  armour 
which  made  one  of  her  fellow  creatures  so  blessedly 
calm,  came  up  again  and  again  to  her  mind. 

"  I  am  feverish — this  is  nightmare,"  said  Eleanor  to 
herself.  But  it  must  be  good  to  have  no  such  nightmare. 
And  when  the  broad  daylight  had  come,  and  she  was 
pronounced  to  be  very  ill,  and  the  doctor  was  sent  for 
Eleanor  found  her  night's  visions  would  not  take  their 


28  THE       OLD      HELMET. 

departure.  She  could  not  get  up  ;  she  was  a  prisoner ; 
would  she  ever  be  free  ? 

She  was  very  ill ;  the  fever  gained  head  ;  and  the  old 
doctor,  who  was  a  friend  of  the  family,  looked  very 
grave  at  her.  Eleanor  saw  it.  She  knew  that  a  battle 
was  to  be  fought  between  the  powers  of  life  and  death ; 
and  the  thought  that  no  one  could  tell  how  the  victory 
would  be,  came  like  an  ice  wind  upon  flowers.  Her 
spirit  shrank  and  cowered  before  it.  Hopes  and  plea 
sures  and  plans,  of  which  she  was  so  full  yesterday, 
were  chilled  to  the  ground ;  and  across  the  cleared  path 
way  of  vision,  Avhat  appeared  ?  Eleanor  would  not 
look. 

But  the  battle  must  be  fought ;  and  it  had  to  be  fought 
amid  pain  and  fever  and  weariness  and  the  anxious 
looks  of  friends ;  and  it  was  not  soon  decided.  And 
the  wish  for  that  helmet  of  shelter,  whatever  it  might 
be,  came  at  times  bitterly  strong  over  Eleanor's  heart. 
Many  a  heavily  drawn  sigh,  which  her  mother  charged 
to  the  body's  weariness,  came  from  the  mind's  longing. 
And  in-  the  solitude  of  the  night,  when  her  breath  was 
quick  and  her  pulse  was  high  and  she  knew  everything 
was  going  wrong,  the  thought  came  with  a  sting  of 
agony, — if  there  was  such  a  helmet,  and  she  could  not 
have  it.  O  to  be  well  and  strong,  and  need  none ! — or 
while  lying  before  death's  door  to  see  if  it  would  open, 
O  to  have  that  talisman  that  would  make  its  opening 
peace  !  It  was  not  at  Eleanor's  hand,  and  she  did  not 
know  where  to  find  it.  And  \vhen  the  daylight  came 
again,  and  the  doctor  looked  "grave,  and  her  mother 
turned  away  the  anxious  face  she  did  not  wish  Eleanor 
to  read,  the  cold  chill  of  fear  crept  over  Eleanor's  heart. 
She  hid  it  there.  No  creature  in  the  house,  she  knew, 
could  meet  or  quiet  it ;  if  indeed  her  explanation  of  it 
could  have  been  understood.  She  banished  it  as  often 
as  it  was  possible  ;  but  during  many  days  that  Eleanor 


AT     THE     GARDEN-DOOR.  29 

lay  on  a  sick  bed,  it  was  so  frequent  a  visiter  that  her 
heart  giew  sore  for  its  coming. 

There  were  June  roses  and  summer  sunshine  outside ; 
and  sweet  breaths  came  in  at  the  open  windows,  telling 
the  time  of  year.  Julia  reported  how  fine  the  straw 
berries  were,  and  went  and  came  with  words  about 
walks  and  flowers  and  joyous  doings ;  while  Eleanor's 
room  was  darkened,  and  phials  of  medicine  and  glasses 
stood  on  the  table,  and  the  doctor  went  and  came,  and 
Mrs.  Powle  hardly  left  her  by  day,  and  at  night  the 
nurse  slept,  and  Eleanor  tossed  and  turned  on  her  pil 
low  and  thought  of  another  "  night"  that  "  cometh." 

O  O 

The  struggle  with  fever  and  pain  was  over  at  last. 
Then  came  weakness ;  and  though  hope  revived,  fear 
would  not  die.  Besides,  Eleanor  said  to  herself,  though 
she  should  get  entirely  well  of  this  sickness,  who  would 
guaranty  her  that  another  would  not  come?  And 
must;  not  one  come — some  time — that  must  be  final  ? 
And  how  should  that  be  met?  Nay,  though  getting 
well  again  and  out  of  present  danger,  she  would  have 
liked  to  have  that  armour  of  shelter  still ! 

"  What  are  you  crying  for  ?"  said  her  little  sister  com 
ing  suddenly  into  her  room  one  day.  Eleanor  was  so 
far  recovered  as  to  be  up. 

"  I  am  weak  and  nervous, — foolish." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  foolish,"  said  Julia. 

"I  do  not  think  I  am  foolish,"  said  Eleanor  slowly. 

"Then  why  do  you  say -you  are?  But  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?" 

"  Like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  child, — I  want  some 
thing  I  cannot  get.  What  have  you  there  ?" 

"  Ferns,"  said  Julia.  "  Do  you  know  what  ferna 
are  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I  do — when  I  see  them." 

"  No,  but  when  you  dorft  see  them;  that's  the  thing." 

*'  Do  you,  pray." 


30  T  H  E     O  L  D    1 1  K  L  M  E  T  . 

"  Yes !  A  fern,  is  a  plant  which  has  its  seeds  come  on 
the  back  of  the  leaf,  and  no  flower;  and  it  comes  up 
curled  like  a  caterpillar.  Aren't  those  pretty  ?" 

"  Where  did  you  learn  all  that  ?" 

"  I  know  more  than  that.  This  leaf  is  called  a  frond." 

"Who  told  you?" 

«  Mr.  Rhys." 

"  Did  you  learn  it  from  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  I  did,  and  a  great  deal  more.  He  ia 
going  to  teach  me  all  about  ferns." 

"  Where  do  you  see  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  Why  !  wherever  I  have  a  mind.  Alfred  goes  walk 
ing  with  him,  and  the  other  boys,  and  I  go  too  ;  and  he 
tells  us  things.  I  always  go  along  with  Mr.  Rhys,  and 
he  takes  care  of  me." 

"  Does  mamma  know  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  papa  lets  Mr.  Rhys  do  just  what  he  pleases. 
Papa  says  Mr.  Rhys  is  a  wonderful  man." 

"  What  is  he  wonderful  for  ?"  said  Eleanor  lan 
guidly. 

"  Well,  /  think,  because  he  is  making  Alfred  a  good 
boy." 

"  I  wonder  how  he  has  done  it,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  So  do  I.  He  knows  how.  What  do  you  think — he 
punished  Alfred  one  day  right  before  papa." 

"  Where  ?"  said  Eleanor,  in  astonishment. 

"  Down  at  the  school.  Papa  was  there.  Papa  told 
about  it.  Alfred  thought  he  wouldn't  dare,  when  papa 
was  there  ;  and  Alfred  took  the  opportunity  to  be  impu- 
•dent;  and  Mr.  Rhys  just  took  him  up  by  his  waistband 
and  laid  him  down  on  the  floor  at  his  feet ;  and  Alfred 
has  behaved  himself  ever  since." 

"  Was  not  papa  angry  ?" 

"  He  said  he  was  at  first,  and  I  think  it  is  likely  ;  but 
after  that,  he  said  Mr.  Rhys  was  a  great  man,  and  he 
would  not  interfere  with  him." 


AT     T  II  K     G  A  R  D  E  N  -  D  O  O  R  .  31 

"  And  how  does  Alfred  like  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  He  likes  him — "  said  Julia,  turning  over  her  ferns. 
"  I  like  him.  Mr.  Rhys  said  he  was  sorry  you  were 
sick.  Now,  that  is  a  frond.  That  is  what  it  is  called. 
Do  you  see,  those  are  the  seeds." 

Eleanor  sighed.  She  would  have  liked  to  take  lessons 
of  Mr.  Rhys  on  another  subject.  She  half  envied 
Julia's  liberty.  There  seemed  a  great  wall  built  up 
between  her  and  the  knowledge  she  wanted.  Must  it 
be  so  always  ? 

"  Julia,  when  are  you  going  to  take  a  walk  with  Mr. 
Rhys  again  ?" 

"  To-morrow,"  was  the  quick  answer. 

"  I  will  give  you  something  to  ask  him  about." 

"  I  don't  want  it.  .  I  always  have  enough  to  ask  him. 
"We  are  going  after  ferns ;  we  always  have  enough  to 
talk  about." 

"  But  there  is  a  question  I  would  like  you  to  ask." 

"  What  is  it  ?     Why  don't  you  ask  him  yourself?" 

Eleanor  was  silent,  watching  Julia's  uncompromising 
business-like  air  as  she  turned  over  her  bunch  of  ferns. 
The  little  one  was  full  of  her  own  affairs ;  her  long  locks 
of  hair  waving  with  every  turn  of  her  busy  head.  Sud 
denly  she  looked  up. 

"  What  is  your  question,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  You  must  not  ask  it  as  if  from  me." 

"How  then?" 

"  Just  ask  it — as  if  you  wanted  to  know  yourself; 
without  saying  anything." 

"  As  if  I  wanted  to  know  what  ?" 

Eleanor  hesitated,   and  Mrs.   Powle   came  into  the 
room. 
.      "What,  Eleanor — what?"  Julia  repeated. 

"  Nothing.     Study  your  ferns." 

"  I  have  studied  them.  This  is  the  rachis — and  down 
here  below  this,  is  the  rhizoma ;  and  tke  little  seed  places 


82  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

that  come  on  the  back  of  the  frond,  are  thecse.  I  forget 
what  Mr.  Rhys  called  the  seeds  now.  I'll  ask  him." 

"  What  nonsense  is  that  you  are  talking,  Julia  ?"     • 

"  Sense,  mamma.     Or  rather,  it  is  knowledge." 

"  Mamma,  how  do  you  like  Mr.  Rhys  ?  Julia  says 
he  is  often  here." 

"  He  is  a  pleasant  man,"  said  Mrs.  Powle.  "  I  have 
nothing  against  him — except  that  your  father  and  the 
children  are  crazy  about  him.  .  I  see  nothing  in  him  to 
be  crazy-  about." 

"  Alfred  is  a  good  deal  less  crazy  than  he  used  to  be," 
remarked  Julia ;  "  and  I  think  papa  hasn't  lost  any 
thing." 

"You  are  a  saucy  girl,"  said  her  mother.  "Mr. 
Carlisle  is  very  anxious  to  know  when  you  will  be  down 
stairs  again,  Eleanor." 

Julia  ran  off  with  her  ferns ;  Eleanor  went  into  a 
muse ;  and  the  conversation  ceased. 

It  happened  a  few  days  after  this,  that  the  event  about 
which  Mr.  Carlisle  was  anxious  came  to  pass.  Eleanor 
was  able  to  leave  her  room.  However,  feeling  yet  very 
wanting  in  strength,  and  not  quite  ready  to  face  a  com 
pany  of  gay  talkers,  she  shunned  the  drawing-room 
where  such  a  company  was  gathered,  and  betook  herself 
to  a  small  summer-parlour  in  another  part  of  the  house. 
This  room  she  had  somewhat  appropriated  to  her  own 
use.  It  had  once  been  a  school-room.  Since  the  misbe 
haviour  of  one  governess,  years  ago,  Mr.  Powle  had 
vowed  that  he  would  never  have  another  in  the  house, 
come  what  would.  Julia  might  run  wild  at  home;  he 
should  be  satisfied  if  she  learned  to  read,  to  ride,  and  to 
walk ;  and  when  she  was  old  enough,  he  would  send  her 
to  boarding-school.  What  the  -  squire  considered  old 
enough,  did  not  appear.  Julia  was  a  fine  child  of  eleven, 
and  still  practising  her  accomplishments  of  riding  and 
walking  to  her  heart's  content  at  home ;  with  little  pro- 


AT     THE    GARDEN-DOOU.  33 

gress  made  in  the  other  branches  to  which  reading  is  the ' 
door.  The  old  schoolroom  had  long  forgotten  even  its 
name,  and  had  been  fitted  up  simply  and  pleasantly  for 
summer  occupation.  It  opened  on  one  side  by  a  glass 
door  upon  a  gay  flower-garden ;  Eleanor's  special  pet 
and  concern  ;  where  she  did  a  great  deal  of  Avork  her 
self.  It  was  after  an  elaborate  geometrical  pattern ;  and 
beds  of  all  sorts  of  angles  were  filled  and  bright  with 
different  colored  verbenas,  phloxes,  geraniums,  heliotrope, 
and  other  flowers  fit  for  such  work  ;  making  a  brilliant 
mosaic  of  scarlet,  purple  and  gold,  in  Eastern  gor- 
geousness,  as  the  whole  was  seen  from  the  glass  door. 
Eleanor  sat  down  there  to  look  at  it  and  realize  the  fact 
that  she  was  getting  well  again ;  with  the  dreamy  real 
ization  that  goes  along  with  present  weakness  and 
remembered  past  pain. 

On  another  side  the  room  opened  to  a  small  lawn  ;  it 
was  quite  shut  off  by  its  situation  and  by  the  plantations 
of  shrubbery,  from  the  other  part  of  the  house ;  and  very 
rarely  visited  by  the  chance  comers  who  were  frequent 
there.  So  Eleanor  was  a  good  deal  surprised  this  even 
ing  to  see  a  tall  strange  figure  appear  at  the  further 
side  of  her  flower  garden ;  then  not  at  all  surprised  to 
see  that  it  was  Mr.  Rhys  accompanied  by  her  sister 
Julia.  Julia  flitted  about  through  the  garden,  in  very 
irregular  fashion,  followed  by  her  friend  ;  till  their  wan 
derings  brought  them  near  the  open  door  within  which 
Eleanor  sat.  To  the  door  Julia  immediately  darted, 
drawing  her  companion  with  her ;  and  as  soon  as  she 
came  up  exclaimed,  as  if  she  had  been  armed  with  a 
search  warrant  and  had  brought  her  man, — 

"  Here's  Mr.  Rhys,  Eleanor.  Now  you  can  ask  him 
yourself  whatever  you  like." 

Eleanor  felt  startled.     But  it  was  with  such  a  pleasant 
face  that  Mr.  Rhys  came  up,  such'  a  cordial  grasp  of  the 
hand  greeted  her,  that  the  feeling  vanished  immediately. 
2* 


34  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

''Perhaps  that  hand-clasp  was  all  the  warmer  for  Eleanor's 
changed  appearance.  She  was  very  unlike  the  girl  of 
superb  health  who  had  wandered  over  the  old  priory 
grounds  a  few  weeks  before.  Eleanor's  colour  was  gone ; 
the  blue  veins  shewed  distinctly  on  the  temples ;  the 
full  lips,  instead  of  their  brilliant  gay  smile,  had  a  lan 
guid  and  much  soberer  line.  She  made  quite  a  different 
impression  now,  of  a  fair  delicate  young  creature,  who 
had  lost  and  felt  she  had  lost  the  proud  strength  in 
which  she  had  been  so  luxuriant  a  little  while  before. 
Mr.  Rhys  looked  at  her  attentively. 

"  You  have  been  very  ill,  Miss  Powle." 

"  I  suppose  I  have — some  of  the  time." 

"  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you  well  again." 

"  Thank  you." 

"Julia  has  been  leading  me  over  the  garden  and 
grounds.  I  did  not  know  where  she  was  bringing  me." 

"  How  do  you  like  my  garden  ?" 

"  For  a  garden  of  that  sort — it  seems  to  me  well 
arranged." 

He  was  very  cool,  certainly,  in  giving  his  opinion, 
Eleanor  thought.  Her  gardening  pride  was  touched. 
This  was  a  pet  of  her  own. 

"  Then  you  do  not  fancy  gardens  of  this  sort." 

"  I  believe  I  think  Nature  is  the  best  artist  of  all." 

"  But  would  you  let  Nature  have  her  own  way  en 
tirely  ?" 

"  No  more  in  the  vegetable  than  I  would  in  the  moral 
world.  She  would  grow  weeds." 

The  quick  clear  sense  and  decision,  in  the  eye  and 
accent,  were  just  what  Eleanor  did  not  want  to  cope 
with.  She  was  silent.  So  were  her  two  companions ; 
for  Julia  was  busy  with  a  nosegay  she  was  making  up. 
Then  Mr.  Rhys  turned  to  Eleanor, 

"  Julia  said  you  had  a  question  to  ask  of  me,  Misa 
Powle, 


AT     THE     GAKDEX-DOOR.  35 

"Yes,  I  had," — said  Eleanor  colouring  slightly  and 
hesitating.  "  But  you  cannot  answer  it  standing — will 
you  come  in,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  Thank  you — if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  take  this 
instead,"  said  he,  sitting  down  on  one  of  the  steps  before 
the  glass  door.  "  What  was  the  question  ?" 

"  That  was  the  other  day,  when  she  brought  in  her 
ferns — it  was  a  wish  I  had.  But  she  ought  not  to  have 
troubled  you  with  it." 

"It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  answer  you — if 
I  can." 

Eleanor  half  fancied  he  knew  what  the  question  was ; 
and  she  hesitated  again,  feeling  a  good  deal  confused. 
But  when  should  she  have  another  chance  ?  She  made 
a  bold  push. 

"  I  felt  a  curiosity  to  ask  you — I  did  not  know  any 
one  else  Avho  could  tell  me — what  that  '  helmet'  was,  you 
spoke  of  one  day ; — that  day  at  the  old  priory  ?" 

Eleanor  could  not  look  up.  •  She  felt  as  if  the  clear 
eyes  opposite  her  were  reading  down  in  the  depth 
of  her  heart.  They  were  very  unflinching  about  it.  It 
was  curiously  disagreeable  and  agreeable  both  at  once. 

"  Have  you  wanted  it,  these  weeks  past  ?"  said  he. 

The  question  was  unexpected.  It  was  put  with  a 
penetrating  sympathy.  Eleanor  felt  if  she  opened  her 
lips  to  speak  she  could  not  command  their  steadiness. 
She  gave  no  answer  but  silence. 

"  A  helmet  ?"  said  Julia  looking  up.  "  What  is  a 
helmet  ?" 

"  The  warriors  of  old  time,"  said  Mr.  Rhys,  "  used  to 
wear  a  helmet  to  protect  their  heads  from  danger.  It 
was  a  covering  of  leather  and  steel.  With  this  head 
piece  on,  they  felt  safe ;  where  their  lives  would  not 
have  been  worth  a  penny  without  it." 

"But  Eleanor — what  does   Eleanoi    want  of  a  hel- 


36  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

met  ?"  said  Julia.    And  she  went  off  into  a  shout  of 
ringing  laughter. 

"Perhaps  you  want  one,"  said  Mr.  Rhys  com 
posedly. 

"  No,  I  don't.  What  should  I  want  it  for  ?  What 
should  I  cover  my  head  with  leather  and  steel  for,  Mr. 
Rhys  ?" 

"  You  want  something  stronger  than  that." 

"  Something  stronger  ?     What  do  I  want,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  To  know  that,  you  must  find  out  first  what  the  dan 
ger  is." 

"  I  am  not  in  any  danger." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"Ami,  Mr.  Rhys?" 

"Let  us  see.  Do  you  kaow  what  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  has  done  for  us  all  ?" 

«  No." 

"  Do  you  know  whether  God  has  given  us  any  com 
mandments  ?"  ^ 

"  Yes ;  I  know  the  ten  commandments.  I  have 
learned  them  once,  but  I  don't  remember  them." 

"  Have  you  obeyed  them  ?" 

"Me?" 
.  "  Yes.     You." 

"  I  never  thought  about  it." 

"  Have  you  disobeyed  them  then  ?" 

Eleanor  breathed  more  freely,  and  listened.  It  was 
curious  to  her  to  see  the  wayward,  giddy  child  stand 
and  look  into  the  eyes  of  her  questioner  as  if  fascinated. 
The  ordinary  answer  from  Julia  would  have  been  a 
toss  and  a  fling.  Now  she  stood  and  said  sedately, 
"  I  don't  know." 

"  We  can  soon  tell,"  said  her  friend.  "  One  of  the 
commandments  is,  to  remember  the  Sabbath  day  and 
keep  it  holy.  Have  you  always  done  that  ?" 


AT     THE     GARDEN-DOCK.  3f 

"  No,"  said  Julia  bluntly.  "  I  don't  think  anybody 
else  does." 

"Never  mind  anybody  else.  Have  you  always 
honoured  the  word  and  wish  of  your  father  and  mo 
ther  ?  That  is  another  command." 

"  I  have  done  it  more  than  Alfred  has." 

"  Let  Alfred  alone.    Have  you  always  done  it  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Have  you  loved  the  good  God  all  your  life,  with  all 
your  heart  ?" 

"  No." 

"  You  have  loved  to  please  yourself,  rather  than  any 
thing  else  ?" 

The  nod  with  which  Julia  answered  this,  if  not  polite, 
was  at  least  significant,  accompanied  with  an  emphatic 
"Always!"  Mr.  Rhys  could  not  help  smiling  at  her, 
but  he  went  on  gravely  enough. 

"  What  is  to  keep  youlhen  from  being  afraid  ?" 

"  From  being  afraid  ?" 

"  Yes.    You  want  a  helmet." 

"  Afraid  ?"  said  Julia. 

"Yes.  Afraid  of  the  justice  of  God.  He  never'lets 
a  sin  go  unpunished.  He  \&  perfectly  just." 

"  But  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Julia. 

"Then  what  is  to  become  of  you?  You  need  a 
helmet." 

"A  helmet?"  said  Julia  again.  "What  sort  of  a 
helmet?" 

"  You  want  to  know  that  God  has  forgiven  you ;  that 
he  is  not  angry  with  you ;  that  he  loves  you,  and  has 
made  you  his  child." 

"  How  can  I  ?"  said  the  child,  pressing  closer  to  the 
speaker  where  he  sat  on  the  step  of  the  door.  And  no 
wonder,  for  the  words  wrere  given  with  a  sweet  earnest 
utterance  which  drew  the  hearts  of  both  hearers.  He 


38  THE     O  L,  D     H  E  1-  M  E  T  . 

went  ou  without  looking  at  Eleanor  ;  or  without  seem- 
ing  to  look  that  way. 

"  How  can  you  what  ? 

"  How  can  I  have  that  ?" 

"  That  helmet  ?    There  is  only  one  way." 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

They  were  silent  a  minute,  looking  at  each  other,  the 
man  and  the  child  ;  the  child  with  her  eyes  bent  on  his. 

"Suppose  somebody  had  taken  your  punishment  for 
you?  borne  the  displeasure  of  God  for  your  sins?" 

"  Who  would  ?"  said  Julia.     "  Nobody  would." 

"  One  has." 
-    «  Who,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  One  that  loved  you,  and  that  loved  all  of  us,  well 
enough  to  pay  the  price  of  saving  us." 

"  What  price  did  he  pay  ?" 

"His  own  life.  He  gave  it  up  cruelly — that  ours 
might  be  redeemed." 

"  What  for,  Mr.  Rhys  ?  what  made  him  ?" 

"  Because  he  loved  us.     There  was  no  other  reason." 

"  Then  people  will  be  saved" — said  Julia. 

"  Every  one  who  will  taka  the  conditions.  It  depends 
upon  that.  There- are  conditions." 

"  What  conditions,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  Do  you  know  who  did  this  for  you  ?" 

"  No." 

"  It  is  the  Lord  himself — the  Lord  Jesus  Christ — the 
Lord  of  glory.  He  thought  it  not  robbery  to  be  equal 
with  God  ;  but  he  made  himself  of  no  reputation,  and 
took  upon  him  the  form  of  a  servant,  and  was  made  in 
the  likeness  of  men ;  and  being  found  in  fashion  as  a 
man,  he  humbled  himself  and  became  obedient  unto 
death — even  the  death  of  the  cross.  So  now  he  is 
exalted  a  Prince  and  a  Saviour — able  to  save  all  who 
will  accept  his  conditions." 

"  What  are  the  conditions,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 


AT     THE     G  A  K  D  K  N  -  i»  O  O  R  .  39 

"  You  must  be  his  servant.  And  you  must  trust  all 
your  little  heart  and  life  to  him." 

"  I  must  be  his  servant  ?"  said  Julia. 

"  Yes,  heart  and  soul,  to  obey  him.  And  you  must 
trust  him  to  forgive  you  and  save  you  for  his  blood's 
sake." 

Doubtless  there  had  been  something  in  the  speaker 
himself  that  had  held  the  child's  attention  so  fast  all  this 
while.  Her  eyes  had  never  wandered  from  his  face ; 
she  had  stood  in  docile  wise  looking  at  him  and  answer 
ing  his  questions  and  listening,  won  by  the  commentary 
she  read  in  his  face  on  Avhat  her  friend  was  saying.  A 
strange  light  kindled  in  it  as  he  spoke ;  there  were  linea 
of  affection  and  tenderness  that  came  in  the  play  of  lips 
and  eyes ;  and  when  he  named  his  Master,  there  had 
shined  in  his  face  as  it  were  the  reflection  of  the  glory 
he  alluded  to.  Julia's  eyes  were  not  the  only  ones  that 
had  been  held  ;  though  it  was  only  Julia's  tongue  that 
said  anything  in  reply.  Standing  now  and  looking  still 
into  the  face  she  had  been  reading,  her  words  were  an 
unconscious  rendering  of  what  she  found  there. 

"  Mr.  Rhys,  I  think  he  was  very  good." 

The  water  filled  these  clear  eyes  at  that,  but  he  only 
returned  the  child's  gaze  and  said  nothing. 

"  I  will  take  the  conditions,  Mr.  Rhys,"  Julia  went  on. 

"  The  Lord  make  it  so !"  he  said  gravely. 

"  But  what  is  the  helmet,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  When  you  have  taken  the  conditions,  little  one,  you 
will  know."  He  rose  up. 

"  Mr.  Rhys,"  said  Eleanor  rising  also,  "  I  have  lis 
tened  to  you,  but  I  do  not  quite  understand  you." 

"  I  recommend  you  to  ask  better  teaching,  Miss 
Powle." 

"  But  I  would  like  to  know  exactly  what  you  mean, 
and  what  you  meant,  by  that '  helmet'  you  speak  of  so 
often  ?" 


40  T  II  K     O  L  D      H  K  L  M  K  T  . 

He  looked  steadily  now  at  the  fair  young  face  beside 
him,  which  told  so  plainly  of  the  danger  lately  passed 
through.  Eleanor  could  not  return,  though  she  suf 
fered  the  examination.  His  answer  was  delayed  while 
he  made  it. 

"  Do  you  ask  from  a  sense  of  need  ?"  he  said. 
"  Eleanor  looked  up  then  and  answered,  "  Yes." 

"  To  say,  '  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth' — that  is 
it,"  he  said.  "  Then  the  head  is  covered — even  from 
fear  of  evil." 

It  was  impossible  that  Eleanor  ever  should  forget  the 
look  that  went  with  the  words,  and  which  had  pre 
vented  her  own  gaze  from  seeking  the  ground  again. 
The  look  of  inward  rejoicing  and  outward  fearlessness  ; 
the  fire  and  the  softness  that  at  once  overspread  his  face. 
"  He  was  looking  at  his  Master  then" — was  the  secret 
conclusion  of  Eleanor's  mind.  Even  while  she  thought 
it,  he  had  turned  and  was  gone  again  with  Julia.  She 
stood  still  some  minutes,  weak  as  she  was.  She  was  not 
sure  that  she  perfectly  comprehended  what  that  helmet 
might  be,  but  of  its  reality  there  could  be  no  question 
ing.  She  had  seen  its  plumes  wave  over  one  brow  ! 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth" — Eleanor  sat 
down  and  mused  over  the  words.  She  had  heard  them 
before ;  they  were  an  expression  of  somebody's  faith, 
she  was  not  sure  whose ;  but  what  faith  was  it  ?  Faith 
that  the  Redeemer  lived?  Eleanor  did  not  question 
that.  She  had  repeated  the  Apostle's  Creed  many  a 
time.  Yet  a  vague  feeling  from  the  words  she  could 
not  analyze — or  arising  perhaps  from  the  look  that  had 
interpreted  them — floated  over  her  mind,  disturbing  it 
with  an  exceeding  sense  of  want.  She  felt  desolate  and 
forlorn.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Julia  and  Mr.  Rhy 
were  gone.  The  garden  was  empty.  There  Avas  i 
more  chance  of  counsel-taking  to-night.  Eleanor  felt  iu 
no  mood  for  gay  gossip,  and  slowly  mounted  the  stairs 


AT    THE     GARDEN-DOOR.  41 

to  her  own  room,  from  whence  she  declined  to  come 
down  again  that  night.  She  would  like  to  find  the  set 
tlement  of  this  question,  before  she  went  back  into  the 
business  of  the  world  and  was  swallowed  up  by  it,  as 
she  would  soon  be.  Eleanor  locked  the  door,  and  took 
up  a  Bible,  and  tried  to  find  some  good  by  reading  in  it. 
Her  eyes  and  head  were  tired  before  her  mind  received 
any  light.  She  was  weak  yet.  She 'found  the  Bible 
very  unsatisfactory  ;  and  gave  it  up. 


OHAPTEK    III. 

"  Why,  all  the  souls  that  were  were  forfeit  once  • 
And  he  that  might  the  vantage  hest  have  took, 
Found  out  the  remedy." 

"  You  can  come  down  stairs  to-night,  Eleanor,"  said 
Mrs.  Powle  the  next  morning. 

"I  was  down  stairs  last  night — in  the  afternoon,  I 
mean — mamjna." 

.   "Yes,  but  you  did  not  stay.      I  want  you  in  the 
drawing-room  this  evening.     You  can  bear  it  now." 

"  I  am  in  no  hurry,  mamma." 

"  Other  people  are,  however.  If  you  wear  a  white 
dress,  do  put  a  rose  or  some  pink  ribbands  somewhere, 
to  give  yourself  a  little  colour." 

"  Have  you  invited  any  one  for  this  evening  ?" 

"  No,  but  people  have  promised  themselves  without 
being  asked.  Dr.  Cairnes  wants  to  see  you ;  he  said  he 
would  bring  Mrs.  Wycherly.  Miss  Broadus  will  be 
here  of  course ;  she  declared  she  would ;  both  of  them. 
And  Mr.  Carlisle  desired  my  permission  to  present 
himself." 

"  Mr.  Rhys  is  coming,"  said  Julia.  , 

"  I  dare  say.  Mr.  Powle  wants"  him  here  all  the  time. 
It  is  a  mercy  the  man  has  a  little  consideration — or  some 
business  to  keep  him  at  home — or  he  would  be  the  sauce 
to  every  dish.  As  it  is,  he  really  is  not  obtrusive." 

"  Are  all  these  people  coming  with  the  hope  and  intent 
of  seeing  me,  mamma  ?" 

"  I  can  only  guess  at  people's  hopes,  Eleanor.    I  am 


IN     THE      1)  It  A  W  I  X  G  -  U  ( >  O  M  .  43 

guiltless  of  anything  but  confessing  that  you  were  to 
make  your  appearance." 

"Mr.  Rhys  is  not  coming  to  see  you,"  said  Julia. 
"  He  wants  to  see  the  books — that  is  what  he  wants." 

There  was  some  promise  for  Eleanor  in  the  company 
announced  for  the  evening.  If  anybody  could  be  use 
ful  to  her  in  the  matter  of  her  late  doubts  and  wishes, 
it  ought  to  be  Dr.  Cairnes,  the  rector.  He  at  least  was 
the  only  one  she  knew  whom  she  could  talk  to  about 
them ;  the  only  friend.  Mr.  Rhys  was  a  stranger  and 
her  brother's  tutor ;  that  was  all ;  a  chance  of  speaking 
to  him  again  was  possible,  but  not  to  be  depended  on. 
Dr.  Cairnes  was  her  pastor  and  old  friend ;  it  is  true, 
she  knew  him  best,  out  of  the  pulpit,  as  an  antiquarian  ; 
then  she  had  never  tried  him  on  religious  questions. 
Nor  he  her,  she  remembered ;  it  Avas  a  doubtful  hope 
altogether ;  nevertheless  the  evening  offered  what  an 
other  evening  might  not  in  many  a  day.  So  Eleanor 
dressed,  and  with  her  slow  languid  step  made  her  way 
down  stairs  to  the  scene  of  the  social  gayeties  which 
had  been  so  long  interrupted  for  her. 

Ivy  Lodge  was  a  respectable,  comfortable,  old  house  ; 
pretty  by  the  combination  of  those  advantages ;  and 
pleasant  by  the  fact  of  making  no  pretensions  beyond 
what  it  was  worth.  It  was  not  disturbed  by  the  rage 
after  new  fashions,  nor  the  race  after  distant  greatness. 
Quiet  respectability  was  the  characteristic  of  the  fam 
ily  ;  Mrs.  Powle  alone  being  burdened  with  the  con 
sciousness  of  higher  birth  than  belonged  to  the  name  of 
Powle  generally.  She  fell  into  her  husband's  ways, 
however,  outwardly,  well  enough;  did  not  dislodge  the 
old  furniture,  nor  introduce  new  extravagances  ;  and  the 
Lodge  was  a  pleasant  place.  "  A  most  enjoyable  house, 
my  dear," — as  Miss  Broadus  expressed  it.  So  the  gentry 
of  the  neighbourhood  found  it  universally. 

The  drawing-room  was  a  pretty,  spacious  apartment 


44  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

light  and  bright ;  opening  upon  the  lawn  directly  with 
out  intervention  of  piazza  or  terrace.  Windows,  or 
rather  glass  doors,  in  deep  recesses,  stood  open ;  the 
company  seemed  to  be  half  in  and  half  out.  Dr.  Cairnes 
was  there,  talking  with  the  squire.  In  another  place 
Mrs.  Powle  was  engaged  with  Mr.  Carlisle.  Further 
than  those  two  groups,  Eleanor's  eye  had  no  chance  to 
go  ;  those  who  composed  the  latter  greeted  her  in 
stantly.  Mrs.  Powle's  exclamation  was  of  doubtful  plea 
sure  at  Eleanor's  appearance  ;  there  was  no  question  of 
her  companion's  gratification.  He  came  forward  to 
Eleanor,  gave  her  his  chair ;  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  then  sat  down  to  see  her  drink  it ;  with  a  manner 
which  bespoke  pleasure  in  every  step  of  the  proceedings. 
A  manner  which  had  rather  the  effect  of  a  barrier  to 
Eleanor's  vision.  It  was  gratifying  certainly;  Eleanor 
felt  it ;  only  she  felt  it  a  little  too  gratifying.  Mr.  Car 
lisle  was  getting  on  somewhat  too  fast  for  her.  She 
drank  her  tea  and  kept  very  quiet ;  while  Mrs.  Powle 
sat  by  and  fanned  herself,  as  contentedly  as  a  mother 
duck  swims  that  sees  all  her  young  ones  taking  to  the 
water  kindly. 

Now  and  then  Eleanor's  eyes  went  out  of  the  win 
dow.  On  the  lawn  at  a  little  distance  was  a  group  of 
people,  sitting  close  together  and  seeming  very  busy. 
They  were  Mr.  Rhys,  Miss  Broadus,  Alfred  and  Julia. 
Something  interesting  was  going  forward;  they  were 
talking  and  listening,  and  looking  at  something  they 
seemed  to  be  turning  over.  Eleanor  would  have  liked 
to  join  them ;  but  here  was  Mr.  Carlisle ;  and  rernem- 
•bering  the  expression  which  had  once  crossed  his  face  at 
the  mention  of  Mr.  Rhys's  name,  she  would  not  draw 
attention  to  the  group  even  by  her  eyes ;  though  they 
wandered  that  way  stealthily  whenever  they  could. 
What  a  good  time  those  people  were  having  there  on 
the  grass ;  and  she  sitting  fenced  in  by  Mr.  Carlisle. 


IN     THE     D  RAWING- It  OOM.  45 

Other  members  of  the  party  who  had  not  seen  Eleanor, 
came  up  one  after  another  to  congratulate  and  welcome 
her  ;  but  Mr.  Carlisle  kept  his  place.  Dr.  Cairnes  came, 
and  Eleanor  wanted  a  chance  to  talk  to  him.  None  was 
given  her.  J^r.  Carlisle  left  his  place  for  a  moment  to 
carry  Eleanor's  cup  away,  and  Dr.  Cairnes  thoughtlessly 
took  the  vacated  chair ;  but  Mr.  Carlisle  stationed  him 
self  on  the  other  side  in  the  window ;  and  she  was  as 
far  from  her  opportunity  as  ever. 

"  Well  my  dear,"  said  the  doctor,  "  you  have  had  a 
hard  time,  eh  ?  We  are  glad  to  have  you  amongst  us 
again." 

"  Hardly,"  put  in  Mrs.  .Powle.  "  She  looks  like  a 
ghost." 

"  Rather  a  substantial  kind  of  a  ghost,"  said  the  doc 
tor,  pinching  Eleanor's  cheek;  "some  flesh  and  blood 
here  yet — flesh  at  least ; — and  now  the  blood  speaks  for 
itself !  That's  right,  my  dear — you  are  better  so." 

Mr.  Carlisle's  smile  said  so  too,  as  the  doctor  glanced 

'  O 

at  him.  But  the  momentary  colour  faded  again.  Eleanor 
remembered  how  near  she  had  come  to  being  a  ghost 
actually.  Just  then  Mr.  Carlisle's  attention  was  forcibly 
claimed,  and  Mrs.  PoAvle  moved  away.  Eleanor  seized 
her  chance. 

"  Dr.  Cairnes,  I  want  your  instruction  in  some 
thing." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  doctor,  lowering  his  tone 
in  imitation  of  Eleanor's — "  I  shall  be  happy  to  be  your 
instructor.  I  have  been  that,  in  some  sort,  ever  since 
you  were  five  years  old — a  little  tot  down  in  your 
mother's  pew,  sitting  tinder  my  ministrations.  What  is 
it,  Miss  Eleanor,?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  receive  much  in  those  days, 
sir." 

"  Probably  not.  Hardly  to  be  expected.  I  have  no 
doubt  you  received  as  much  as  a  child  could,  from  the 


46  T  H  K      0  L  I)      II  K  LM  ET. 

mysteries  which  were  above  its  comprehension.  "What 
is  it  now,  Miss  Eleanor  ? 

"  Something  in  your  line,  sir.  Dr.  Cairnes,  you  re 
member  the  helmet  spoken  of  in  the  Bible  ?" 

"  Helmet  ?"  said  the  doctor.  "  Goliatljjs  ?  He  had  a 
helmet  of  brass  upon  his  head.  Must  have  been  heavy, 
but  I  suppose  he  could  carry  it.  The  same  thing  essen. 
tially  as  those  worn  by  our  ancestors — a  little  variation 
in  form.  What  about  it,  my  dear  ?  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  smiling  again." 

"  Nothing  about  that.  I  am  speaking  of  another  sort 
of  helmet — do  you  not  remember  ? — it  is  called  some 
where  the  helmet  of-  salvation." 

"That?  O!— urn!  'ffiat  helmet!  Yes— it  is  in, 
let  me  see — it  is  in  the  description  of  Christian  armour, 
in  a  fine  passage  in  Ephesians,  I  think.  What  about 
that,  Miss  Eleanor  ?" 

"  I  want  to  know,  sir,  what  shape  that  helmet 
takes." 

It  was  odd,  with  what  difficulty  Eleanor  brought  out 
.her  questions.  It  was  touching,  the  concealed  earnest 
ness  which  lingered  behind  her  glance  and  smile. 

"  Shape  ?"  said  the  doctor,  descending  into  his  cravat ; 
— "  um !  a  fair  question  ;  easier  asked  than  answered. 
Why  my  dear,  you  shotild  read  a  commentary." 

"  I  like  living  commentaries,  Dr.  Cairnes." 

"  Do  you  ?  Ha,  ha ! — weU.  Living  commentaries, 
eh  ?  and  shapes  of  helmets.  Well.  What  shape  does 
it  take  ?  Why,  my  dear,  you  know  of  course  that 
those  expressions  are  figurative.  I  think  it  takes  the 
shape  of  a  certain  composure  and  peace  of  mind  which 
the  Christian  soul  feels,  and  justly  feels,  in  regarding  the 
provision  made  for  its  welfare  in  the  gospel.  It  is 
spoken  of  as  the  helmet  of  salvation ;  and  there  is  the 
shield  of  faith  ;  and  so  forth." 


IN     T  H  K     D  K  A  W  1  N  G  -  R  O  O  M  .  47 

Eleanor  felt  utterly  worried,  and  did  not  in  the  least 
know  how  to  frame  her  next  question. 

"  What  has  put  you  upon  thinking  of  helmets,  Misa 
Eleanor  ?" 

"  I  was  curious — "  said  Eleanor. 

"  You  had  some  serious  thoughts  in  your  illness  ?" 
said  the  doctor.  "  Well,  my  dear — I  am  glad  of  it. 
Serious  thoughts  do  not  in  the  least  interfere  with  all 
proper  present  enjoyments ;  and  with  improper  ones 
you  would  not  wish  to  have  anything  to  do." 

"  May  we  not  say  that  serious  thoughts  are  the  foun 
dation  of  all  true  present  enjoyment?"  said  another 
voice.  It  was  Mr.  Rhys  who  spoke.  Eleanor  started 
to  hear  him,  and  to  see  him' suddenly  in  the  place  where 
Mr.  Carlisle  had  been,  standing  in  the  window. 

"  Eh  ?  Well— no,— not  just  that,"  said  Dr.  Cairnes 
coolly.  "  I  have  a  good  deal  of  enjoyment  in  various 
things — this  fair  day  and  this  fair  company,  for  example, 
and  Mrs.  Powle's  excellent  cup  of  tea — with  which  I 
apprehend  serious  thoughts  have  nothing  to  do." 

"  But  we  are  commanded  to  do  everything  in  the 
name  of  the  Lord  Jesus."  • 

"Well — um!  That  is  to  be  taken  of  course  in  its 
rational  significance.  A  cup  of  tea  is  a  cup  of  tea — and 
nothing  more.  There  is  nothing  at  the  bottom  of  it — 
ha,  ha ! — but  a  little  sugar.  Nothing  more  serious." 

Mr.  Rhys's  figure  standing  in  the  window  certainly 
hindered  a  part  of  the  light.  To  judge  by  the  doctor's 
face,  he  was  keeping  out  the  whole. 

"What  do  you  suppose  the  apostle  means,  sir,  when 
he  says,  'Henceforward  know  I  no  man  after  the 
flesh  ?' " 

"  Hum ! — Ah, — well,  he  was  an  apostle.  I  am  not. 
Perhaps  you  are?" 

There  was  a  degree  of  covert  disdain  in  this  speeeh, 
which  Eleanor  wondered  at  in  so  well-bred  a  man  as  Dr. 


48  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

Cairnes.  Mr.  Rhys  answered  with  perfect  steadiness, 
with  no  change  of  tone  or  manner. 

"Without  being  inspired — I  think,  in  the  sense  of 
messenger,  every  minister  of  Christ  is  his  apostle." 

"  Ah  !  Well ! — I  am  not  even  apostolic,"  said  the  doc 
tor,  with  one  or  two  contented  and  discontented  grunts. 
Eleanor  understood  them ;  the  content  was  his  own,  the 
discontent  referred  to  the  speaker  whose  words  were  so 
inopportune.  The  doctor  rose  and  left  the  ground.  Mr. 
Rhys  had  gone  even  before  him  ;  and  Eleanor  wondered 
anew  whether  this  man  were  indeed  shy  or  not.  He 
was  so  little  seen  and  heard  ;  yet  spoke,  when  he  spoke, 
with  such  clearness  and  self-possession.  He  was  gone 
now,  and  Mr.  Carlisle  was  still  busy.  Up  came  Miss 
Broadus  and  took  the  vacant  seat. 

.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  Miss  Broadus's  face.  It 
was  in  a  certain  sense  fair,  and  fat,  and  fresh-coloured  ; 
but  the  "  windows  of  her  soul"  shewed  very  little  light 
from  within  ;  they  let  out  nothing  but  a  little  gleam  now 
and  then.  However,  her  tongue  was  fluent,  and  matter 
for  speech  never  wanting.  She  was  kindly  too,  in  man 
ner  at  least ;  and  extremely  sociable  with  all  her  neigh 
bours,  low  as  well  as  high  ;  none  of  whose  affairs  wanted 
interest  for  her.  It  was  in  fact  owing  to  Miss  Broadus's 
good  offices  with  Mrs.  Powle,  that  Mr.  Rhys  had  been 
invited  to  join  the  pleasui-e  party  Avith  which  the  adven 
tures  of  this  book  begin.  The  good  lady  was  as  neat 
as  a  pink  in  her  dress ;  and  very  fond  of  being  as  showy, 
in  a  modest  way. 

"  Among  us  again,  Eleanor  ?"  she  said.  "  We  arc 
glad  to  see  you.  So  is  Mr.  Carlisle,  I  should  judge. 
We  have  missed  you  badly.  You  have  been  terribly  ill, 
haven't  you?  Yes,  you  shew  it.  But  that  will  soon 
pass  away,  my  dear.  I  longed  to  get  in  to  do  some 
thing  for  you — but  Mrs.  Powle  would  not  let  me ;  and  I 
knew  you  Lad  the  best  of  everything  all  the  while. 


I  N.    T  II  E      DRAWING-ROOM.  49 

Only  I  thought  I  would  bring  you  a  pot  of  my  grape 
jelly ;  for  Mrs.  Powle  don't  make  it ;  and  it  is  so  re 
freshing." 

"  It,  was  very  nice,  thank  you." 

"  O  it  was  nothing,  my  dear ;  only  we  wanted  to  do ' 
something.  I  have  been  having  such  an  interesting 
time  out  there  ;  didn't  you  see  us  sitting  on  the  grass  ? 
Mr.  Rhys  is  quite  a  botanist — or  a  naturalist — or  some 
thing  ;  and  he  was  quite  the  centre  of  our  entertain 
ment.  He  was  shewing  us  ferns — fern  leaves,  my  dear; 
and  talking  about  them.  Do  you  know,  as  I  told  him,  I 
never  looked  at  a  fern  leaf  before  ;  but  now  really  it's 
quite  curious ;  and  he  has  almost  made  me  believe  I 
could  see  a  certain  kind  of  beauty  in  them.  You  know 
there  is  a  sort  of  beauty  which  some  people  think  they 
find  in  a  great  many  things ;  and  when  they  are  enthu 
siastic,  they  almost  make  you  think  as  they  do.  I  think 
there  is  great  power  in  enthusiasm." 

"  Is  Mr.  Rhys  enthusiastic  ?" 

"  O  I  don't  know,  .my  dear, — I  don't  know  what  you 
would  call  it ;  I  am  not  a  philosopher ;  but  he  is  very 
fond  of  ferns  himself.  He  is  a  very  fine  man.  He  is  a 
great  deal  too  good  to  go  and  throw  himself  away.'' 

"  Is  that  what  he  is  going  to  do  ?" 

"  "Why  yes,  my  dear ;  that  is  what  I  should  call  it.  It 
is  a  great  deal  more  than  that.  I  never  can  remember 
the  place ;  but  it  is  the  most  dreadful  place,  I  do  suppose, 
that  ever  was  heard  of.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  place. 
They  do  every  horrible  thing  there — my  dear,  the  ac 
counts  make  your  blood  creep.  I  think  Mr.  Rhys  is  a 
great  deal  too  valuable  a  man  to  be  lost  there,  among 
such  a  set  of  creatures — they  are  more  like  devils  than 
men.  And  Eleanor,"  said  Miss  Broadtis  looking  round 
to  see  that  nobody  was  within  hearing  of  her  communi 
cation, — "  you  have  no  idea  what  a  pleasant  man  he  is, 
I  asked  him  to  tea  with  Juliana  and  me — you  know  one 

3 


50  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

must  be  kind  and  neighbourly  at  any  rate — and  he  has 
no  friends  here  ;  I  sometimes  wonder  if  he  has  any  any 
where  ;  but  he  came  to  tea,  and  he  was  as  agreeable  as 
possible.  He  was  really  excellent  company,  and  very 
well  behaved.  I  think  Juliana  quite  fell  in  love  with 
him  ;  but  I  tell  her  it's  no  use  ;  she  never  would  go  off  to 
that  dreadful  place  with  him." 

And  Miss  Broadus  laughed  a  laugh  of  simple  amuse 
ment  ;  Miss  Juliana  being,  though  younger  than  herself, 
still  very  near  the  age  of  an  old  lady.  They  kept  the 
light-hearted  simplicity  of  young  years,  however,  in  a 
remarkable  degree  ;  and  so  had  contrived  to  dispense 
with  wrinkles  on  their  fresh  old  faces. 

"  Where  is  that  place,  Miss  Broadus  ?" 

"  My  dear,  I  never  can  remember  the  name  of  it. 
They  do  say  the  country  is  beautiful,  and  the  fruit,  and 
all  that ;  it  is  described  to  be  a  beautiful  place,  where, 
as  Heber's  hymn  says,  "  only  man  is  vile."  But  he  is  as 
vile  as  he  can  be,  there.  And  I  am  sure  Mr.  Rhys  would 
be  a  great  loss  at  Wiglands.  My  dear,  how  pleasant  it 
would  be,  I  said  to  Juliana  this  morning,  how  pleasant 
it  would  be,  if  Mr.  Rhys  were  only  in  the  Church,  and 
could  help  good  Dr.  Cairnes.  Tisn't  likely  they  will  let 
him  live  long  out  there,  if  he  goes." 

"When  is  he  going  ?" 

"  O  I  don't  know  when,  my  dear  ;  he  is  waiting  for 
something.  And  I  never  can  remember  the  name  of 
the  place ;  if  a  word  has  many  syllables  I  cannot  keep 
them  together  in  my  memory  ;  only  I  know  the  vegeta 
bles  there  grow  to  an  enormous  size,  and  as  if  that 
wasn't  enough,  men  devour  each  other.  It  seems  like 
an  abusing  the  gifts  of  providence,  don't  it  ?  But  there 
is  nothing  they  do  not  abuse.  I  am  afraid  they  will 
abuse  poor  Mr.  Rhys.  And  his  boys  would  miss  him 
very  much,  and  I  am  sure  we  all  should.  I  have  got 
quite  acquainted  with  him,  seeing  him  here  ;  and  p^w 


IN     THE     BK  A  WIN  G-R  O  OM.  51 

Juliana  has  taken  a  fancy  to  ask  him  to  our  cot 
tage — and  I  have  come  to  quite  like  him.  What  a  dif 
ferent  looking  man  he  is  from  Mr.  Carlisle — now  look  at 
them  talking  together  ! — " 

"  Where  did  you  learn  all  this,  Miss  Broadus  ?  did 
Mr.  Rhys  tell  you  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  he  never  will  talk  about  it  or  about 
himself.  He  lent  me  a  pamphlet  or  something. — Mr. 
Rhys  is  the  tallest — but  Mr.  Carlisle  is  a  splendid  look 
ing  man, — don't  you  think  so  Eleanor  ?" 

Miss  Broadus's  energetic  whisper  Eleanor  thought  fit 
to  ignore,  though  she  did  not  fail  to  note  the  contrast 
which  a  moment's  colloquy  between  the  two  men  pre 
sented.  There  was  little  in  common  between  them;  be 
tween  the  marked  features  and  grave  keen  expression  of 
the  one  face,  and  the  cool,  bright,  somewhat  supercilious 
eye  and  smile  of  the  other.  There  was  power  in  both 
faces,  Eleanor  thought,  of  different  kinds  ;  and  power  is 
attractive.  Her  eye  was  held  till  they  parted  from  each 
other.  Two  very  different  walks  in  life  claimed  the  two 
men  ;  so  much  Eleanor  could  see.  For  some  time  after 
she  was  obliged  to  attend  exclusively  to  that  walk  of 
life  which  Mr.  Carlisle  represented,  and  to  look  at  the 
views  he  brought  forward  for  her  notice. 

They  were  not  so  engrossing,  however,  that  Eleanor 
entirely  forgot  the  earlier  conversation  of  the  afternoon  or 
the  question  which  had  troubled  her.  The  evening  had 
been  baffling.  She  had  not  had  a  word  with  Mr.  Rhys, 
and  he  had  disappeared  long  since  from  the  party.  So 
had  Dr.  Cairnes.  There  was  no  more  chance  of  talk 
upon  that  subject  to-night ;  and  Eleanor  feeling  very 
feeble  still,  thought  best  to  cut  short  Mr.  Carlisle's 
enjoyment  of  other  subjects  for  the  evening.  She  left 
the  company,  and  slowly  passed  through  the  house, 
from  room  to  room,  to  get  to  her  own.  In  the  course 
of  this  progress  she  came  to  the  library.  There, 


62  T  H'  E     O  L  D     II  13  L  M  E  T  . 

seated  at  one  of  the  tables  and  bending  over  a  vol 
ume,  was  Mr.  Rhys.  He  jumped  up  as  she  passed 
through,  and  came  forward  with  extended  hand  and 
a  word  of  kindly  inquiry.  His  "  good  night"  was  so 
genial,  his  clasp  of  her  hand  so  frank  and  friendly,  that 
instead  of  going  on,  Eleanor  stood  still. 

"  Are  you  studying  ?" 

"  Your  father  has  kindly  given  me  liberty  to  avail 
myself  of  his  treasures  here.  My  time  is  very  scanty — 
I  was  tempted  to  seize  the  moment  that  offered  itself. 
It  is  a  very  precious  privilege  to  me,  and  one  which  I 
shall  not  abuse." 

"  Pray  do  not  speak  of  abusing,"  said  Eleanor  ;  "  no 
body  minds  the  books  here ;  I  am  glad  they  are  good  to 
anybody  else. — I  am  interrupting  you." 

"  Not  at  all !"  said  he  bringing  up  a  great  chair  for 
her, — "  or  only  agreeably.  Pray  sit  down — you  are  not 
fit  to  stand." 

Eleanor  however  remained  standing,  and  hesitating, 
for  a  moment. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  a  little  more*  about  what 
we  were  talking  of,"  she  said  with  some  effort. 

"  Do  you  feel  your  want  of  the  helmet  ?"  he  said 
gravely. 

"  I  feel  that  I  haven't  it,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  "What  is  it  that  you  are  conscious  of  wanting  ?" 

She  hesitated ;  it  was  a  home  question  ;  and  very  un 
accustomed  to  speak  of  her  secret  thoughts  and  feelings 
to  any  one,  especially  on  religious  subjects,  which  how 
ever  had  never  occupied  her  before,  Eleanor  was  hardly 
ready  to  answer.  Yet  in  the  tones  of  the  question  there 
was  a  certain  quiet  assurance  and  simplicity  before 
which  she  yielded. 

"  I  felt — a  little  while  ago — when  I  was  sick — that  I 
was  not  exactly  safe." 

Eleanor  spoke,  hesitating  between  every  few  words, 


IN     THE     I)  K  A  W  I  N  G  -  B  O  O  M  .  53 

looking  doAvn,  and  falling  her  voice  at  the  end.  So  she 
did  not  see  the  keen  intentness  of  the  look  that  was 
fixed  upon  her. 

"  You  felt  that  there  was  something  wanting  between 
you  and  God  ?" 

"  I  believe  so." 

His  accent  was  as  deliberately  clear  as  her's  was  hesi 
tating.  Every  word  went  into  Eleanor's  soul. 

"  Then  you  can  understand  now,  that  when  one  can 
say,  joyfully,  "  I  knpw  that  my  Redeemer  liveth"  ; — 
when  he  is  no  vague  abstraction,  but  felt  to  be  a  Re 
deemer  ; — when- one  can  say  assuredly,  he  is  my  Re 
deemer  ;  I  know  he  has  bought  back  my  soul  from  sin 
and  from  the  punishment  of  sin,  which  is  death  ;  I  feel  I 
am  forgiven;  and  I  know  he  liveth — my  Redeemer — 
and  according  to  his  promise  lives  to  deliver  me  'from 
every  evil  and  will  preserve  me  unto  his  heavenly  king 
dom  ; — do  you  see,  now,  that  one  who  can  say  this  has 
on  his  head  the  covering  of  an  infinite  protection — an 
infinite  shelter  from  both  danger  and  fear  ? — a  helmet, 
placed  on  his  head  by  his  Lord's  own  hand,  and  of  such 
heavenly  temper  that  no  blows  can  bre:tk  through  it." 

Eleanor  was  a  little  time  silent,  with  downcast  eyes. 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say,  that  this  protection  is 
against  all  evil ;  do  you  ?  sickness  and  pain  are  evils,  are 
they  not  ?" 

"  Not  to  him." 

"  Not  to  him  ?" 

"  No.  The  evil  of  them  is  gone.  They  can  do  him 
no  harm ;  if  they  come,  they  will  do  good.  He  that 
wears  this  helmet  has  absolutely  no  evil  to  fear.  All 
things  shall  work  good  to  him.  There  shall  no  evil  hap 
pen  to  the  just.  Blessed  be  the  Lord,  who  only  doeth 
wondrous  things  !" 

Eleanor  stood  silenced,  humbled,  convinced  ;  till  she 
recollected  she  must  not  stand  there  so,  and  she 


54  THKOLDHKLMET. 

lifted  her  eyes  to  bid  good-night.  Then  the  face  she 
met  gave  a  new  turn  to  her  thoughts.  It  was  a  changed 
face  ;  such  a  light  of  pure  joy  and  deep  triumph  shone 
over  it,  not  hiding  nor  hindering  the  loving  care  with 
which  those  penetrating  eyes  were  reading  herself.  It 
gave  Eleanor  a  strange  compression  of  heart ;  it  told 
her  more  than  his  words  had  done ;  it  shewed  her  the 
very  reality  of  which  he  spoke.  Eleanor  went  away 
overwhelmed. 

"Mr.  Rhys  is  a  happy  man  !"  she  said -to  herself; — 
happy,  happy !  I  wish, — I  wish,  I  were  as  happy  as  he !" 


CHAPTER    IV. 

u  She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  aiicPbrown, 

Take  care ! 

She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down, 
Beware  I  beware  1" 

A  FEW  days  more  saw  Eleanor  restored  to  all  the 
strength  and  beauty  of  health  which  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  consider  her  natural  possession.  And 
then — it  is  likely  to  be  so — she  was  so  happy  in  what 
mind  and  body  had,  that  she  forgot  her  wish  for  what 
the  spirit  had  not.  Or  almost  forgot  it.  Eleanor  lived 
a  very  full  life.  It  was  no  dull  languid  existence  that 
she  dragged  on  from  day  to  day  ;  time  counted  out  none 
but  golden  pennies  into  her  hand.  Every  minute  was 
filled  with  business  or  play,  both  heartily  entered  into, 
and  pursued  with  all  the  energy  of  a  very  energetic  na 
ture.  Study,  when  she  touched  it,  was  sweet  to  her ; 
but  Eleanor  did  not  study  much.  Nature  was  an 
enchanted  palace  of  light  and  perfume.  Bodily  exer 
tion,  riding  and  walking,  was  as  pleasant  to  her  as  it 
is  to  a  bird  to  use  its  wings.  Family  intercourse,  and 
neighbourly  society,  were  nothing  but  pleasure.  Benevo 
lent  kindness,  if  it  came  in  her  way,  was  a  labour  of 
love;  and  a  hundred  home  occupations  were  greatly 
delighted  in.  They  were  not  generally  of  an  exalted 
character ;  Eleanor's  training  and  associations  had  not 
led  her  into  any  very  dignified  path  of  human  action  ; 
she  had  led  only  a  butterfly's  life  of  content  and  plea 
sure,  and  her  character  Avas  not  at  all  matured  ;  but  the 
capabilities  were  there ;  and  the  energy  and  will  that 


66  T  II  E      O  1, 1)      HELMET. 

might  have  done  greater  things,  wrought  beautiful  em. 
broidery,  made  endless  fancy  work,  ordered  well  such 
part  of  the  household  economy  as  was  committed  to 
her,  carried  her  bright  smile  into  every  circle,  and  made 
Eleanor's  foot  familiar  with  all  the  country  where  she 
could  go  alone,  and  her  pony's  trot  well  known  in 
every  lane  and  roadway  where  she  could  go  with  his 
company. 

All  these  enjoyments  of  her  life  were  taken  with  new 
relish  and  zeal  after  her  weeks  of  illness  had  laid  her 
aside  from  them.  Eleanor's  world  was  brighter  than 
ever.  And  round  about  all  of  these  various  enjoyments 
now,  circling  them  with  a  kind  of  halo  of  expectancy 
or  possibility,  was  the  consciousness  of  a  prospect  that 
Eleanor  knew  was  opening  before  her — a  brilliant  life- 
possession  that  she  saw  Fortune  offering  to  her  with  a 
gracious  hand.  Would  Eleanor  take  it  ?  That  Eleanor 
did  not  quite  know.  Meanwhile  her  eyes  could  not  help 
looking  that  way ;  and  her  feet,  consciously  or  uncon 
sciously,  now  and  then  made  a  step  towards  it. 

She  and  her  mother  were  sitting  at  work  one  morn 
ing — that  is  to  say,  Eleanor  was  drawing  and  Mrs. 
Powle  cutting  tissue  paper  in  some  very  elaborate  way, 
for  some  unknown  use  or  purpose ;  when  Julia  dashed 
in.  She  threw  a  bunch  of  bright  blue  flowers  on  the 
table  before  her  sister. 

"  There,"  she  said — "  do  you  know  what  that  is  ?" 

"  Why  certainly,"  said  Eleanor.     "  It  is  borage." 

"  Well,  do  you  know  what  it  means  ?" 

"What  it  means ?  No.  What  does  any  flower 
mean  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  this  means" — said  Julia. 

"  I,  borage 
Bring  courage." 

"  That  is  wnat  people  used  to  think  it  meant." 


IN      THE     SADDLE.  57 

"  How  do  you  know  that." 

"  Mr.  Rliys  says  so.  This  borage  grew  in  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams's  garden  ;  and  I  dare  say  she  believes  it." 

"  Who  is  Mrs.  Williams  ?" 

"  Why  ! — she's  the  old  woman  where  Mr.  Rhys  lives ; 
he  lives  in  her  cottage;  that's  where  he  has  his  school. 
He  has  a  nice  little  room  in  her  cottage,  and  there's 
nobody  else  in  the  cottage  but  Mrs.  Williams." 

"  Do,  Julia,  carry  your  flowers  off,  and  do  not  be  so 
hoydenish,"  said  Mrs.  Powle. 

"  We  have  not  seen  Mr.  Rhys  here  in  a  great  while 
mamma,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  wonder  what  has  become 
of  him." 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Julia — "  he  has  become  not  well. 
I  know  Mr.  Rhys  is  sick,  because  he  is  so  pale  and  weak. 
And  I  know  he  is  weak,  because  he  cannot  walk  as  he 
used  to  do.  We  used  to  walk  all  over  the  hills  ;  and  he 
says  he  can't  go  now." 

"  Mamma,  it  would  be  right  to  send  down  and  see 
what  is  the  matter  with  him.  There  must  be  something. 
It  is  a  long  time — mamma,  I  think  it  is  weeks — since  he 
was  at  the  Lodge." 

"  Your  father  will  send,  I  dare  say,"  said  Mrs.  Powle, 
cutting  her  tissue  paper. 

"  Mamma,  did  you  hear,"  said  Eleanor  as  Julia  ran 
off,  "  that  Mr.  Rhys  was  going  to  leave  Wiglands  and 
bury  himself,  in  some  dreadful  place,  somewhere  ?" 

"  I  heard  so." 

"  What  place  is  it  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell,  I  am  sure.  It  is  somewhere  in  the  South 
Seas,  I  believe — that  region  of  horrors." 

"  Is  it  true  he  is  going  there,  mamma  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  can't  tell.  Miss  Broadus  says  so  ;  and 
she  says,  I  believe,  he  told  her  so  himself.  If  be  did,  I 
suppose  it  is  true." 

"  Mamma,  I  think  Mr.  Rhys  is  a  great  deal  too  fine  a 

3* 


68  THE     OLD      II  EL  MET. 

man,  to  go  and  lose  his  life  in  such  a  place.  Miss 
Broadus  says  it  is  horrible.  Do  you  know  anything 
about  it  ?" 

"  I  have  no  taste  for  horrors,"  said  Mrs.  Powle. 

"  I  think  it  is  a  great  pity,"  Eleanor  repeated.  "  I  am 
sorry.  There  is  enough  in  England  for  such  a  man  to 
do,  without  going  to  the  South  Seas.  I  wonder  how 
anybody  can  leave  England  !" 

Mrs.  Powle  looked  up  at  her  daughter  and  laughed. 
Eleanor  had  suspended  her  drawing  and  was  sending  a 
loving  gaze  out  of  the  open  window,  where  nature  and 
summer  were  revelling  in  their  conjoined  riches.  Art 
shewed  her  hand  too,  stealthily,  having  drawn  out  of 
the  way  of  the  others  whatever  might  encumber  the 
revel.  Across  a  wide  stretch  of  wooded  and  cultivated 
country,  the  eye  caught  the  umbrageous  heights  on  the 
further  side  of  the  valley  of  the  Rylh.  Eleanor's  gaze 
was  fixed.  Mrs.  Powle's  glance  was  sly. 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  your  opinion  of  another  place," 
she  said, — "  which,  being  in  England,  is  not  horrible. 
You  see  that  bit  of  brown  mason-work,  high  away  there, 
peeping  out  above  the  trees  in  the  distance  ? — You  know 
what  house  that  is  ?" 

"  Certainly.'.' 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  It  is  the  Priory.  The  new  Priory,  it  ought  to  be 
called  ;  I  am  sure  the  old  one  is  down  there  in  the  valley 
yet — beneath  it."  But  Eleanor's  colour  rose. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  place  ?" 

"  Considering  that  the  old  priory  and  its  gfounds 
belong  to  it,  I  .think  it  must  be  one  of  the  loveliest 
places  in  England." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it  in  your  possession — "  Mrs. 
Powle  remarked,  going  on  with  her  tissue  paper. 

Eleanor  also  went  on  assiduously  with  her  drawing, 


I  N     T  H  E     S  A  n  D  L  E  .  59 

and  her  colour  remained  a  rich  tint.  But  she  went  on 
frankly  with  her  words  too. 

"  I  am  not  sure,  mamma,  that  I  like  the  owner  of  it 
well  enough  to  receive  such  a  valuable  gift  from  him." 

"  He  likes  you,  quite  well  enough  to  bestow  it  on  you, 
without  asking  any  questions,"  said  Mrs.  Powle.  "  He 
hardly  thinks  it  is  worth  having,  unless  you  have  it 
too." 

"  That  is  inconvenient,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  It  strikes  me  the  other  way,"  said  her  mother. 

'4  How  do  you  know  this,  which  you  affirm  so  securely, 
mamma  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  it  ?  The  person  in  question 
told  me  himself." 

"  Told  you  in  so  many  words  ?" 

"  No,  in  a  great  many  more,"  said  Mrs.  Powle  laugh 
ing.  "  I  have  merely  presented  a  statement.  He  had  a 
great  deal  more  to  do  than  that." 

The  tissue  paper  rustled  quietly  for  some  time  after 
this,  and  Eleanor's  pencil  could  be  heard  making  quick 
marks.  Neither  lady  interrupted  the  other. 

"  Well,  Eleanor, — hoAV  does  it  seem  to  you  ?"  began 
the  elder  lady,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  satisfaction. 

"  Inconvenient,  mamma, — as  I  said." 

"  How  ?" 

But  Eleanor  did  not  say  how. 

"  Mr.  Carlisle  will  be  here  for  his  answer  this  even- 
ing." 

"  I  like  him  very  well,  mamma,"  said  Eleanor  after 
another  pause, — "  but  I  do  not  like  him  enough." 

"  Nonsense !  You  would  like  to  be  Lady  Rythdale, 
wouldn't  you  ?" 

The  silence  which  followed  this  was  longer  than 
that  which  had  been  before.  Knife  and  pencil  pursued 
their  work,  but  Mrs.  Powle  glancing  up  furtively  from 
her  tissue  paper  saw  that  Eleanor's  brow  was  knitted 


60  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

and  that  her  pencil  was  moving  under  the  influence  of 
something  besides  Art.  So  she  let  her  alone  for  a  long 
time.  And  Eleanor's  fancy  saw  a  vision  of  fairy  beauty 
and  baronial  dignity  before  her.  They  lay  in  the  wide 
domains  and  stately  appendages  of  Rythdale  Priory. 
How  could  she  help  seeing  it  ?  The  vision  floated  be 
fore  her  with  point  after  point  of  entrancing  loveliness, 
old  history,  present  luxury,  hereditary  rank  and  splen 
dour,  and  modern  power.  It  was  like  nothing  in  Elea 
nor's  own  home.  Her  father,  though  a  comfortable 
country  gentleman,  boasted  nothing  and  had  nothing  to 
boast  in  the  way  of  ancestry,  beyond  a  respectable 
descent  of  several  generations.  His  means,  though 
ample  enough  for  comfort  and  reasonable  indulgence, 
could  make  no  pretensions  to  more.  And  Ivy  Lodge 
was  indeed  a  pleasant  home,  and  every  field  and  hedge 
row  belonging  to  it  was  lovely  to  Eleanor ;  but  the 
broad  manors  of  Rythdale  Priory  for  extent  would 
swallow  up  many  such,  and  for  beauty  and  dignity  were 
as  a  damask  rose  to  a  bit  of  eglantine.  Would  Eleanor 
be  Lady  Rythdale  ?" 

"  He  ~will  be  here  this  evening  for  his  answer,  Elea 
nor — "  Mrs.  Powle  remarked  in  a  quiet  voice  the  second 
time. 

"  Then  you  must  give  it  to  him,  mamma." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  must  see  him 
yourself.  I  will  have  no  such  shifting  of  your  work 
upon  my  shoulders." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  see  him  to-night,  mamma." 

"  I  choose  that  you  should.  Don't  talk  any  nonsense 
to  me,  Eleanor." 

"  But  mamma,  if  I  am  to  give  the  answer,  I  am  not 
ready  with  any  answer  to  give." 

"Teh1  Mr.  Carlisle  so;  and  he  will  draw  his  own  con 
clusions,  and  make  you  sign  them." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  made  to  sign  anything." 


IN     THE     SADDLE.  61 

•'  Do  it  of  free- will  then,"  said  Mrs.  Powle  laughing. 
"  It  is  coming  Eleanor — one  way  or  the  other.  If  I 
were  you,  I  would  do  it  gracefully.  Is  it  a  hard  thing  to 
be  Lady  Rythdale  ?" 

Eleanor  did  not  say,  and  nothing  further  passed  on  the 
subject;    till   as  both   parties   were  leaving  the  room 
together,  Mrs.  Powle  said  significantly, 
,  "  You  must  give  your  own  answer,  Eleanor,  and  to 
night.     I  will  have  no  skulking." 

It  was  beyond  Mrs.  Powle's  power,  however,  to  pre 
vent  skulking  of  a  certain  sort.  Eleanor  did  not  hide 
herself  in  her  room,  but  she  left  it  late  in  the  afternoon, 
when  she  knew  the  company  consisted  of  more  «than 
one,  and  entered  a  tolerably  well  filled  drawing-room. 
Mrs.  Powle  had  not  wished  to  have  it  so,  but  these 
things  do  not  arrange  themselves  for  our  wishes.  Miss 
Broadus  was  there,  and  Dr.  Cairnes,  and  friends  who 
had  come  to  make  him  and  his  sister  a  visit ;  and  one  or 
two  other  neighbours.  Eleanor  came  in  without  making 
much  use  of  her  eye^,  and  sheltered  herself  immediately 
under  the  wing  of  Miss  Broadus,  who  was  the  first  per 
son  she  fell  in  with.  Two  pairs  of  eyes  saw  her  en- 
ti'ance ;  with  oddly  enough  the  same  thought  and  com 
ment.  "  She  will  make  a  lovely  Lady  Rythdale."  All 
the  baronesses  of  that  house  had  been  famous  for  their 
beauty,  and  the  heir  of  the  house  remarked  to  himself 
that  this  would  prove  not  the  least  lovely  of  the  race. 
However,  Eleanor  did  not  even  feel  sure  that  he  was 
there,  he  kept  at  such  a  distance  ;  and  she  engaged  Miss 
Broadus  in  a  conversation  that  seemed  of  interminable 
resources.  The  sole  thing  that  Eleanor  was  conscious 
of  concerning  it,  was  its  lasting  quality;  and  to  maintain 
that  was  her  only  care. 

Would  Eleanor  be  Lady  Rythdale  ?  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  nothing,  except,  that  it  would  be  very  diffi 
cult  for  her  to  say  either  yes  or  no.  Naturally  enough 


62  T  II  E      O  L  1)      H  E  1,  M  E  T  . 

she  dreaded  the  being  obliged  to  say  anything ;  and  was 
ready  to  seize  every  expedient  to  stave  off  the  moment 
of  emergency.  As  long  as  she  was  talking  to  Miss 
Broad  us,  she  was  safe  ;  but  conversations  cannot  last  al 
ways,  even  when  they  flow  in  a  stream  so  full  and  co 
pious  as  that  in  which  the  words  always  poured  from 
that  lady's  lips.  Eleanor  saw  signs  at  last  that  the 
fountain  was  getting  exhausted ;  and  as  the  next  resort 
proposed  a  game  of  chess.  Now  a  game  of  chess  was 
the  special  delight  of  Miss  Broadus  ;  and  as  it  was  the 
detestation  of  her  sister  Miss  Juliana,  the  delight  was 
seldom  realized.  The  two  sisters  were  harmonious  in 
everything  except  a  few  tastes,  and  perhaps  their  want 
of  harmony  in  those  points  gave  their  life  the  variety  it 
needed.  At  any  rate,  such  an  offer  as  Eleanor's  was 
rarely  refused  by  the  elder  sister ;  and  the  two  ladies 
were  soon  deep  in  their  business.  One  really,  the  other 
seemingly.  Though  indeed  it  is  true  that  Eleanor  was 
heartily  engaged  to  prevent  the  game  coming  to  a  ter 
mination,  and  therefore  played  in  good  earnest,  not  for 
conquest  but  for  time.  This  had  gone  on  a  good  while, 
before  she  was  aware  that  a  footstep  was  drawing  near 
the  chess  table,  and  then  that  Mr.  Carlisle  stood  beside 
her  chair. 

"  Now  don't  you  come  to  help  !"  said  Miss  Broadus, 
with  a  thoughtful  face  and  a  piece  between  her  finger 
and  thumb. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  I  know  !"  said  Miss  Broadus,  never  taking  her  eyes 
from  the  board  which  held  them  as  by  a  charm, — "  I  can 
play  a  sort  of  a  game  ;  but  if  you  take  part  against  me, 
I  shall  be  vanquished  directly." 

"  Why  should  I  take  part  against  you  ?" 

Miss  Broadus  at  that  laughed  a  got)d-humoured  little 
simple  laugh.  "Well" — she  said,  "it's  the  course  of 
events,  I  suppose.  I  never  find  anybody  taking  my  part 


IN     THE      SADDLE.  63 

now-a-days.  There !  I  am  afraid  you  have  made  me 
place  that  piece  wrong,  Mr.  Carlisle.  I  wish  you  would 
be  still.  I  cannot  fight  against  two  such  clever  people." 

"  Do  you  find  Miss  Powle  clever  ?" 

"  I  didn't  know  she  was,  so  much,  before,"  said  Misa 
Broadus,  "but  she  has  been  playing  like  a  witch  this 
evening.  There' Eleanor — you  are  in  check." 

Eleanor  was  equal  to  that  emergency,  and  relieved 
her  king  from  danger  with  a  very  skilful  move.  She 
could  keep  her  wits,  though  her  cheek  was  high-coloured 
and  her  hand  had  a  secret  desire  to  be  nervous.  Eleanor 
would  not  let  it ;  and  Mr.  Carlisle  admired  the  very  pret 
ty  fingers  which  paused  quietly  upon  the  chess-men. 

"  Do  not  forget  a  proper  regard  for  the  interests  of 
the  church,  Miss  Broadus,"  he  remarked. 

"  Why  I  never  do  !"  said  Miss  Broadus.  "  "What  do 
you  mean  ?  Oh  my  bishop ! — Thank  you,  Mr.  Carlisle." 

Eleanor  did  not  thank  him,  for  the  bishop's  move  shut 
up  her  play  in  a  corner.  She  did  her  best,  but  her 
king's  resources  were  cut  off;  and  after  a  little  shuffling 
she  was  obliged  to  surrender  at  discretion.  Miss  Broadus 
arose,  pleased,  and  reiterating  her  thanks  to  Mr.  Carlisle, 
and  walked  away ;  as  conscious  that  her  presence  was  no 
more  needed  in  that  quarter. 

"  Will  you  play  with  me  ?"  said  Mr.  Carlisle,  taking 
the  chair  Miss  Broadus  had  quitted. 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor,  glad  of  anything  to  stave  off1 
what  she  dreaded  ;  "but  I  am  not — " 

"  I  am  no  match  for  you,"  she.  was  going  to  say.  She 
stopped  suddenly  and  coloured  more  deeply. 

"  What  are  you  not  ?"  asked  the  gentleman,  slowly 
setting  his  pawns. 

"  I  am  not  a  very  good  player.  I  shall  hardly  give 
you  amusement." 

"  I  am  not  sorry  for  that — supposing  it  true.  I  do 
not  like  to  see  women  good  chess-players." 


64  THE      OI-D      HELMET. 

"  Pray  why  do  you  not  like  it  ?" 

"Chess  is  a  game  of  planning — scheming — contriv 
ing — calculating.  Women  ought  not  to  be  adepts  in 
those  arts.  I  hate  women  that  are." 

He  glanced  up  as  he  spoke,  at  the  fair,  frank  lines  of 
the  face  opposite  him.  No  art  to  scheme  was  shewn  in 
them ;  there  might  be  resolution  ;  he  liked  that.  He 
liked  it  too  that  the  fringe  of  the  eyes  drooped  over 
them,  and  that  the  tint  of  the  cheek  was  so  very  rich. 

"  But  they  say,  no  one  can  equal  a  woman  in  scheming 
and  planning,  if  she  takes  to  it,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Try  your  skill,"  said  he.     "  It  is  your  move." 

The  game  began,  and  Eleanor  tried  to  make  good 
play ;  but  she  could  not  bring  to  it  the  same  coolness 
or  the  same  acumen  that  had  fought  with  Miss  Broadus. 
The  well-formed,  well-knit  hand  with  the  coat  sleeve  be 
longing  to  it,  which  was  all  of  her  adversary  that  came 
under  her  observation,  distracted  Eleanor's  thoughts ; 
she  could  not  forget  whose  it  was.  Very  different  from 
the  weak  flexile  fingers  of  Miss  Broadus,  Avith  their 
hesitating  movement  and  doubtful  pauses,  these  did 
their  work  and  disappeared  ;  with  no  doubt  or  hesitancy 
of  action,  and  with  agile  firmness  in  every  line  of  mus 
cle  and  play.  Eleanor  shewed  very  poor  skill  for  her 
part,  at  planning  and  contriving  on  this  occasion ;  and 
she  had  a  feeling  that  her  opponent  might  have  ended 
the  game  many  a  time  if  he  had  chosen  it.  Still  the 
game  did  not  end.  It  was  a  very  silent  one. 

"  You  are  playing  with  me,  Mr.  Carlisle,"  she  said  at 
length. 

"  What  are  you  doing  with  me  ?" 

"Making  no  fight  at  all;  but  that  is  because  I 
cannot.  Why  don't  you  conquer  me  and  end  tlu 
game  ?" 

"  How  can  I  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know ;  but  I  believe  you  do.     It 


INT     THE     SADDLE.  *          65 

is  all  a  muddle  to  me  ;  and  not  a  very  interesting  piece 
of  confusion  to  you,  I  should  think," 

He  did  not  a/iswer  that,  but  moved  a  piece ;  Eleanor 
made  the  answering  move ;  and  the  next  step  created  a 
lock.  The  game  could  go  no  further.  Eleanor  began 
to  put  up  the  pieces,  feeling  worsted  in  more  ways  than 
one.  She  had  not  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  higher  than 
that  coat-sleeve ;  and'  she  knew  at  the  same  time  that 
she  herself  had  been  thoroughly  overlooked.  Those 
same  fingers  came  now  helping  her  to  lay  the  chessmen 
in  the  box,  ordering  them  better  than  she  did. 

"  I  want  to  shew  you  some  cottages  I  have  been  build 
ing  beyond  Rythdale  tower,"  said  the  owner  of  the  fin 
gers.  "  Will  you  ride  with  me  to-morrow  to  look  at 
them  ?» 

He  waited  for  her  answer,  which  Eleanor  hesitated  to 
give.  But  she  could  not  say  no,  and  finally  she  gave  a 
low  yes.  Her  yes  was  so  low,  it  was  significant , 
Eleanor  knew  it ;  but  Mr.  Carlisle  went  on  in  the  same 
tone. 

"  At  what  hour  ?  At  eleven  ?" 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Eleanor,  after  hesitating  again. 

"  Thank  you." 

He  went  on,  taking  the  chessmen  from  her  fingers  as 
fast  as  she  gathered  them  up,  and  bestowing  them  in 
the  box  after  a  leisurely  manner ;  then  rose  and  bowed 
and  took  his  departure.  Eleanor  saw  that  he  did  not 
hold  any  communication  with  her  mother  on  his  way 
out ;  and  in  dread  of  Mrs.  Powle's  visitation  of  curiosity 
upon  herselfj  she  too  made  as  quick  and  as  quiet  an  es 
cape  as  possible  to  her  own  room.  There  locked  the 
door  and  walked  the  floor  to  think. 

In  effect  she  had  given  her  answer,  by  agreeing  to 
ride;  she  knew  it.  She  knew  that  Mr.  Carlisle  had 
taken  it  so,  even  by  the  slight  freedom  with  which  his 
fingers  touched  hers  in  taking  the  chessmen  from  them. 


66  *  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

• 

It  was  a  very  little  thing ;  and  yet  Eleanor  could  never 
recall  the  willing  contact  of  those  fingers,  repeated  and 
repeated,  without  a  thrill  of  feeling  thajt  she  had  com 
mitted  herself ;  that  she  had  given  the  end  of  the  clue  into 
Mr.  Carlisle's  hand,  which  duly  wound  up  would  land 
her  safe  enough,  mistress  of  Rythdale  Priory.  And 
was  she  unwilling  to  be  that  ?  No — not  exactly.  And 
did  she  dislike  Rythdale  Priory's  master,  or  future  mas 
ter  ?  No,  not  at  all ;  nevertheless,  Eleanor  did  not  feel 
quite  willing  to  have  him  hers  just  yet ;  she  was  not  ready 
for  that ;  and  she  chafed  at  feeling  that  the  end  of  that 
clue  was  in  the  hand  of  her  chess-playing  antagonist, 
and  alternatives  pretty  well  out  of  her  power.  An  al 
ternative  Eleanor  would  have  liked.  She  "would  have 
liked  the  play  to  have  gone  on  for  some  time  longer, 
leaving  her  her  liberty  in  all  kinds ;  liberty  to  make  up 
her  mind  at  leisure,  among  other  things.  She  was  not 
iust  now  eager  to  be  mistress  of  anything  but  herself. 

Eleanor  watched  for  her  mother's  coming,  but  Mrs. 
Powle  was  wiser.  She  had  marked  the  air  of  both 
parties  on  quitting  the  drawing-room ;  and  though 
doubtless  she  would  have  liked  a  little  word  reve 
lation  of  what  she  desired  to  know,  she  was  content 
to  leave  things  in  train.  She  judged  that  Mr.  Carlisle 
could  manage  his  own  affairs,  and  went  to  bed  well 
satisfied;  while  Eleanor,  finding  that  her  mother  was 
not  coming,  at  last  laid  herself  also  down  to  rest,  with 
a  mixed  feeling  of  pleasure  and  pain  in  her  heart,  but 
vexation  towering  above  all.  It  would  have  been  vex 
ation  still  better  grown,  if  she  had  known  the  hint  her 
mother  had  given  Mr.  Carlisle,  when  that  evening  -he 
had  applied  to  her  for  what  news  she  had  for  him? 
Mrs.  Powle  referred  him  very  smilingly  to  Eleanor  to 
learn  it ;  at  the  same  time  telling  him  that  Eleanor 
had  been  allowed  to  run  wild — like  her  sister  Julia — till 
now  she  was  a  little  wilful  and  needed  taming. 


IN     THE     S  A  1)  I)  L  12.  67 

She  looked  the  character  sufficiently  well  when  she 
came  down  the  next  morning.  The  colour  on  her  cheek 
was  raised  yet,  and  rich;  and  Eleanor's  beautiful  lips 
did  not  unbend  to  their  brilliant  mischievous  smile.  She 
was  somewhat  quick  and  nervous  too  about  her  house 
hold  arrangements  and  orders,  which  yet  Eleanor  did  not 
neglect.  It  was  time  then  to  dress  for  her  ride;  and 
Eleanor  dressed,  not  hurriedly  but  carefully,  between 
pleasure  and  irritation.  By  what  impulse  she  could 
not  have  told,  she  pulled  the  feather  from  her  riding 
cap.  It  was  a  long,  jaunty  black  feather,  that  somewhat 
shaded  and  softened  her  face  in  riding  with  its  float 
ing  play.  Her  cap  now,  and  her  whole  dress,  was  sim 
plicity  itself;  but  if  Eleanor  had  meant  to  cheat  Mr. 
Carlisle  of  some  pleasure,  she  had  misjudged  and  lost 
her  aim  ;  the  close  little  unadorned  cap  but  shewed  the 
better  her  beautiful  hair  and  a  face  and  features  which 
nobody  that  loved  them  could  wish  even  shaded  from 
view. 

Mrs.  Powle  had  maintained  a  discreet  silence  all  the 
morning ;  nevertheless  Eleanor  was  still  afraid  that  she 
might  come  to  ask  questions,  and  not  enduring  to  answer 
them,  as  soon  as  her  toilet  was  finished  she  fled  from  her 
room  into  the  garden.  This  garden,  into  which  the  old 
schoolroom  opened,  was  Eleanor's  particular  property. 
No  other  of  the  family  were  ever  to  be  found  in  it.  She 
had  arranged  its  gay  curves  and  angles,  and  worked  in 
it  and  kept  it  in  great  part  herself.  The  dew  still 
hung  on  .  the  leaves  ;  the  air  of  a  glorious  summer 
morning  was  sweet  with  the  varied  fragrance  of  the 
flowers.  Eleanor's  heart  sprung  for  the  dear  old  liberty 
she  and  the  garden  had  had  together ;  she  went  linger- 
ingly  and  thoughtfully  among  her  petunias  and  carna 
tions,  remembering  how  joyous  that  liberty  had  been  ; 
and  yet — she  was  not  willing  to  say  the  word  that  would 
secure  it  to  her.  She  roved  about  among  the  walks. 


68  T  H  E     O  L  D     H  E  L  M  E  T  . 

picking  carnations  in  one  hand  and  gathering  up  her 
habit  with  the  other.  So  her  little  sister  found  her. 

"  Why  Eleanor ! — are  you  going  to  ride  with  Mr. 
Carlisle  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well  he  has  come — he  is  waiting  for  you.  He  has 
brought  the  most  splendid  black  horse  for  you  that  you 
ever  saw  ;  papa  says  she  is  magnificent." 

"  I  ordered  my  pony" — said  Eleanor. 

"  Well  the  pony  is  there,  and  so  is  the  black  horse.  O 
such  a  beauty,  Eleanor !  Come." 

Eleanor  woiild  not  go  through  the  house,  to  see  her 
mother  and  father  by  the  way.  Instinctively  she  sheered 
off  by  the  shrubbery  paths,  which  turning  and  winding 
at  last  brought  her  out  upon  the  front  lawn.  On  the 
whole  a  more  marked  entrance  upon  the  scene  the  young 
lady  could  not  have  contrived.  From  the  green  setting 
of  the  shrubbery  her  excellent  figure  came  out  to  view, 
in  its  dark  riding  drapery ;  and  carnations  in  one  hand, 
her  habit  in  the  other,  she  was  a  pleasant  object  to  sev 
eral  pairs  of  eyes  that  were  watching  her ;  Julia  having 
done  them  the  kind  office  to  say  which  way  she  was 
coming. 

Of  them  all,  however,  Eleanor  only  saw  Mr.  Carlisle, 
who  was  on  the  ground  to  meet  her.  Perhaps  he  had 
as  great  an  objection  to  eyes  as  she  had  ;  for  his  removal 
of  his  cap  in  greeting  was  as  cool  as  if  she  had  been  a 
stranger ;  and  so  were  his  words. 

"  I  have  brought  Black  Maggie  for  you — will  you  do 
me  the  honour  to  try  her  ?" 

Eleanor  did  not  say  she  would  not,  and  did  not  say 
anything.  Hesitation  and  embarrassment  were  the  two 
pleasant  feelings  which  possessed  her  and  forbade  her  to 
speak.  She  stood  before  the  superb  animal,  which 
showed  blood  in  every  line  of  its  head  and  beautiful 
frame ;  and  looked  at  it,  and  looked  at  the  ground .  Mr. 


IN     THE     SADDLE.  69 

Carlisle  gently  removed  the  carnations  from  her  hand, 
taking  them  into  his  own,  then  gave  her  the  reins  of 
Blaqk  Maggie  and  put  her  into  the  saddle.  In  another 
minute  they  were  off,  and  out  of  the  reach  of  observa 
tion.  But  Eleanor  had  felt  again,  even  in  that  instant  01 
giving  into  her  fingers  the  reins  which  he  ''had  taken 
from  the  groom,  the  same  thing  that  she  had  felt  last 
night — the  expression  of  something  new  between  them. 
She  was  in  a  very  divided  state  of  mind.  She  had  not 
told  him  he  might  take  that  tone  with  her. 

"  There  are  two  ways  to  the  head  of  the  valley,"  said 
the  subject  of  her  thoughts.  "  Shall  we  take  the  circuit 
by  the  old  priory,  or  go  by  the  moor  ?" 

"  By  the  moor,"  said  Eleanor. 

There,  for  miles,  was  a  level  plain  road ;  they  could 
ride  any  pace,  and  she  could  stave  off  talking.  Accord 
ingly,  as  soon  as  they  got  quit  of  human  habitations, 
Eleanor  gave  Black  Maggie  secretly  to  understand  that 
she  might  go  as  fast  as^  she  liked.  Black  Maggie  appa 
rently  relished  the  intimation,  for  she  sprang  forward  at 
a  rate  Eleanor  by  experience  knew  nothing  of.  She  had 
never  been  quite  so  well  mounted  before.  As  swiftly 
and  as  easily  as  if  Black  Maggie's  feet  had  been  wings, 
they  flew  over  the  common.  The  air  was  fresh,  the  mo 
tion  was  quite  sufficient  to  make  it  breezy  ;  Eleanor  felt 
exhilarated.  All  the  more  because  she  felt  rebellious, 
and  the  stopping  Mr.  Carlisle's  mouth  was  at  least  a  grat 
ification,  though  she  could  not  leave  him  behind.  He 
had  not  mounted  her  better  than  himself.  Fly  as  Black 
Maggie  would,  her  brown  companion  was  precisely  at 
her  side.  Eleanor  had  a  constant  sense  of  that ;  but 
however,  the  vide  was  so  capital,  the  moor  so  wild,  the 
summer  air  so  delicious,  that  by  degrees  she  began  to 
grow  soothed  and  come  down  from  rebellion  to  good 
humour.  By  and  by,  Black  Maggie  got  excited.  It  was 
with  nothing  but  her  own  spirits  and  motion  ;  quite 


70  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

enough  though  to  make  hoofs  still  more  emulous  of 
wings.  Now  she  flew  indeed.  Eleanor's  bridle  rein  was 
not  sufficient  to  hold  her  in,  or  make  any  impression. 
She  could  hardly  see  how  they  went. 

"  Is  not  this  too  much  for  you  ?"  the  voice  of  Mr.  Car 
lisle  said  quietly. 

"Rather — but  I  can't  check  her,"  said  Eleanor  ;  vexed 
to  make  the  admission,  and  vexed  again  when  a  word  or 
two  from  the  rider  at  her  side,  who  at  the  same  moment 
leaned  forward  and  touched  Maggie's  bridle,  brought 
the  wild  creature  instantly  not  only  from  her  mad  gallop 
but  back  to  a  very  demure  and  easy  trot.  So  demure, 
that  there  was  no  longer  any  bar  to  conversation ;  but 
then  Eleanor  reflected  she  could  not  gallop  always,  and 
they  were  almost  off  the  plain  road  of  the  moor.  How 
beautiful  the  moor  had  been  to  her  that  morning  !  Now 
Eleanor  looked  at  Black  Maggie's  ears. 

"  How  do  you  like  her  ?"  said  Mr.  Carlisle. 

"  Charming !     She  is  perfection.     She  is  delightful." 

"  She  must  learn  to  know  her  "mistress,"  he  rejoined, 
leaning  forward  again  and  drawing  Maggie's  reins 
through  his  fingers.  "  Take  her  Up  a  little  shorter — and 
speak  to  her  the  next  time  she  does  not  obey  you." 

The  flush  rose  to  Eleanor's  cheeks,  and  over  her  brow, ' 
and  reddened  her  very  temples.  She  made  no  sort  of 
answer,  yet  she  knew  silence  was  answer,  and  that  her 
blood  was  speaking  for  her.  It  was  pretty  speaking, 
but  extremely  inconvenient.  And  what  business  had 
Mr.  Carlisle  to  take  things  for  granted  in  that  way  ? 
Eleanor  began  to  feel  rebellious  again. 

"  Do  you  always  ride  with  so  loose  a  rein  ?"  began 
Mr.  Carlisle  again. 

"  I  don't  know — I  never  think  about  it.  My  pony  is 
perfectly  safe." 

"  So  is  Maggie — as  to  her  feet ;  but  in  general,  it  ia 
well  to  let  everything  under  you  feel  your  hand." 


IN     THE     SADDLE.  7l 

"  That  is  what  you  do,  I  have  no  doubt,"  thought 
Eleanor,  and  bit  her  lip.  She  would  have  started  into 
another  gallop  ;  but  they  were  entering  upon  a  narrow 
and  rough  way  where  gallopping  was  inadmissible.  It 
descended  gradually  and  winding  among  rocks  and 
broken  ground,  to  a  lower  level,  the  upper  part  of  the 
valley  of  the  Ryth ;  a  beautiful  clear  little  stream  flow 
ing  brightly  in  a  rich  meadow  ground,  with  gently 
shelving,  softly  broken  sides  ;  the  initiation  of  the  wilder 
scenery  further  down  the  valley.  Here  were  the  cottages 
Mr.  Carlisle  had  spoken  of.  They  looked  very  pic 
turesque  and  very  inviting  too  ;  standing  on  either  side 
the  stream,  across  which  a  rude  rustic  bridge  was  thrown. 
Each  cottage  had  its  paling  enclosure,  and  built  of  grey 
rough  stone,  with  deep  sloping  roofs  and  bright  little 
casements,  they  looked  the  very  ideal  of  humble  homes. 
No  smoke  rose  from  the  chimneys,  and  nobody  was  vis 
ible  without  or  within. 

"  I  want  some  help  of  you  here,"  said  Mr.  Carlisle. 
"  Do  you  like  the  situation  ?" 

"  Most  beautiful !"  said  Eleanor  heartily.  "  And  the 
houses  are  just  the  thing." 

"  Will  you  dismount  and  look  a  little  closer  ?  We 
will  cross  the  bridge  first." 

They  drew  bridle  before  one  of  the  cottages.  Elea 
nor  had  all  the  mind  in  the  world  to  have  thrown  her 
self  from  Black  Maggie's  back,  as  she  was  accustomed 
to  do  from  her  own  pony ;  but  she  did  not  dare.  Yes 
terday  she  would  have  dared ;  to-day  there  was  a  slight 
indefinable  change  in  the  manner  of  Mr.  Carlisle  towards 
herself,  which  cast  a  spell  over  her.  He  stood  beside 
Black  Maggie,  the  carnations  making  a  rosy  spot  in  the 
buttonhole  of  his  white  jacket,  while  he  gave  some  order 
to  the  groom — Eleanor  did  not  hear  what,  for  her  mind 
was  on  something  else  ;  then  turned  to  her  and  took  her 
down,  that  same  indescribable  quality  of  manner  and 


?2  THE     OLD      IIKL  MET. 

handling  saying  to  all  her  senses  that  he  regarded  the 
horse  and  the  lady  with  the  same  ownership.  Eleanor 
felt  proud,  and  vexed,  and  ashamed,  and  pleased ;  her 
mind  divided  between  different  feelings  ;  but  Mr.  Car 
lisle  directed  her  attention  now  to  the  cottages. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  admire  and  be  pleased  with 
them.  The  exterior  was  exceedingly  homelike  and 
pretty  ;  within,  there  was  yet  more  to  excite  admira 
tion.  Nicely  arranged,  neatly  and  thoroughly  fur 
nished,  even  to  little  details,  they  looked  most  desirable 
homes  for  any  persons  of  humble  means,  even  though 
the  tastes  had  not  been  equally  humble.  From  one  to 
another  Mr.  Carlisle  took  Eleanor ;  displaying  his  ar 
rangements  to  a  very  silent  observer ;  for  though  she 
thought  all  this  admiration,  she  hardly  said  anything. 
Between  irritation,  and  pleasure,  and  a  pretty  well- 
grown  shyness,  she  felt  very  tongue-tied.  At  last,'  after 
shewing  her  the  view  from  the  lattice  of  a  nice  little 
cotta^ge  kitchen,  Mr.  Carlisle  asked  for  her  judgment  upon 
what  had  been  done. 

"  It  is  thoroughly  excellent,"  said  Eleanor.  "  They 
leave  nothing  to  wish.  I  have  never  seen  such  nice  cot 
tages.  There  is  nobody  in  them  yet  ?" 

"  Is  there  any  improvement  to  be  made  ?'' 

"  None  to  be  desired,  I  think,"  said  Eleanor.  "  They 
are  just  perfect  little  homes.  They  only  want  the  peo 
ple  now." 

"  And  that  is  where  I  want  your  help.  Do  you  think 
of  any  good  families,  or  poor  people  you  approve  of, 
that  you  would  like  to  put  in  some  of  these  ?" 

Eleanor's  thought  flew  instantly  to  two  or  three  such 
families  among  her  poor  friends ;  for  she  was  a  good 
deal  of  a  Lady  Bountiful,  as  far  as  moderate  means  and 
large  sympathy  could  go ;  and  knew  many  of  the  lower 
classes  in  her  neighbourhood ;  but  again  she  struggled 
with  two  feelings,  for  the  question  had  been  put  not  in  a 


IN     THE     SADDLE.  73 

tone  of  compliment,  but  with  a  manner  of  simple  consul 
tation.  She  flushed  and  hesitated,  until  it  was  put 
again. 

"  I  know  several,  I  think,  that  you  would  not  dislike 
to  have  here,  and  that  would  be  very  glad  to  come,  Mr. 
Carlisle." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"One  is  Mrs.  Benson,  who  lives  on  nothing  with  her 
family  of  eight  children,  and  brings  them  up  well." 

Mr.  Carlisle  took  out  his  note-book. 

"  Another  is  Joe  Shepherd  and  his  wife ;  but  they  are 
an  old  couple ;  perhaps  you  do  not  want  old  people 
here  ?" 

He  looked  tip  from  his  note-book  with  a  little  smile, 
which  brought  the  blood  tingling  to  Eleanor's  brow 
again,  and  effectually  drove  away  all  her  ideas.  She 
Avas  very  vexed  with  herself;  she  was  never  used  to 
be  so  troubled  with  blushing.  She  turned  away. 

"  Suppose  you  sit  down,"  said  he,  taking  her  hands 
and  placing  her  in  a  chair  by  the  window.  "  You  must  have 
some  refreshment,  I  think,  before  we  go  any  further." 
He  left  the  cottage,  and  Eleanor  looked  out  of  the  open 
casement,  biting  her  lips.  The  air  came  in  with  such  a 
sweet  breath  from  the  heathery  moor,  it  seemed  to  blow 
vexation  away.  Yet  Eleanor  was  vexed.  Here  she  was 
making  admissions  with  every  breath,  when  she  would 
fain  have  not  made  any.  She  Avanted  her  old  liberty, 
and  to  dispose  of  it  at  her  leisure  if  at  all ;  and  at  least 
not  to  have  it  taken  from  her.  But  here  Avas  Mr.  Car 
lisle  at  her  elboAV  again,  and  one  of  his  servants  bringing 
dishes  and  glasses.  The  meats  were  spread  on  the  little 
table  before  which  Eleanor  sat,  and  Mr.  Carlisle  took 
another  chair. 

"  We  will  honour  the  house  for  once,"  he  said  smil 
ing  ;  "  the  future  shall  be-  as  the  occupants  deserve.  Is 
this  one  to  belong  to  some  of  your  proteges  ?" 

4 


74  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

"  I  have  not  the  gift  of  foresight,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  You  have  another  sort  of  gift  which  will  do  quite  as 
well.  If  you  hav.e  any  choice,  choose  the  houses  in 
which  Joe  Shepherd,  and  Mrs.  Benson,  and  anybody 
else,  shall  thank  you — and  I  will  order  the  doors  marked. 
"Which  do  you  prefer  ?" 

Eleanor  was  forced  to  speak.  "  I  think  this  is  one  of 
the  pleasantest  situations,"  she  said  flushing  deeply  again ; 
"  but  the  house  highest  up  the  valley " 

"  What  of  it  ?"  said  Mr.  Carlisle,  smiling  at  her. 

"  That  would  be  best  for  Joe  Shepherd,  because  of  his 
business.  It  is  nearer  the  common.'' 

"  Joe  Shepherd  shall  have  it.  Now  will  you  do  me 
the  favour  to  eat  that,"  said  he  putting  a  piece  of  cold 
game  on  her  plate.  "  Do  not  look  at  it,  but  eat  it.  Your 
day's  labour  is  by  no  means  over." 

It  was  easier  to  eat  than  to  do  nothing;  and  easier 
to  look  at  her  plate  than  where  her  carnations  gleamed 
on  that  white  breast-ground.  So  Eleanor  eat  obediently. 

"  The  day  is  so  uncommonly  fine,  how  would  you  like 
to  walk  down  the  valley  as  far  as  the  old  priory,  and  let 
the  horses  meet  us  there  ?" 

"  I  am  willing" — said  Eleanor.  Which  she  was,  only 
because  she  was  ashamed  or  afraid  to  say  that  she  wanted 
to  gallop  back  by  the  moor,  the  same  way  she  had  come. 
A  long  walk  down  the  valley  would  give  fine  opportu 
nity  for  all  that  she  dreaded  in  the  way  of  conversation. 
However,  the  order  was  given  about  the  horses,  and  the 
walk  began. 

The  way  was  at  first  a  continuation  of  the  valley  in 
which  the  cottages  were  situated ;  uncultivated,  sweet, 
and  wild.  They  were  a  good  distance  beyond  Barton's 
tower.  The  stream  of  the  Ryth,  not  so  large  as  it 
became  further  down,  sparkled  along  in  a  narrow  meadow, 
beset  with  flowers.  Here  and  there  a  rude  bridge 
crossed  it ;  and  the  walkers  passed  as  they  listed  from 


IN     THE     SADDLE.  ?5 

side  to  side,  Avandering  down  the  valley  at  great  leisure, 
remarking  upon  all  sorts  of  things  except  what  Eleanor 
'  was  dreading.  The  walk  and  talk  went  on  without  any 
thing  formidable.  Mr.  Carlisle  seemed  to  have  nothing 
on  his  mind ;  and  Eleanor,  full  of  what  -was  on  hers, 
only  felt  through  his  quiet  demeanour  that  he  was  taking 
things  for- granted  in  a  very  cool  way.  She  was  vexed 
and  irritated,  and  at  the  same  time  subdued.  And  then 
an  opposite  feeling  would  stir,  of  pleasure  and  pride,  at 
the  place  she  was  taking  and  the  relations  she  was  assum 
ing  to  the  beautiful  domain  through  which  they  wan 
dered.  As  they  went  down  the  valley  it  grew  more  and 
more  lovely.  Luxuriant  growths  of  ash  and  oak,  min 
gled  with  larches,  crowned  the  rising  borders  of  the 
valley  and  crept  down  their  sides,  hanging  a  most  exqui 
site  clothing  of  vegetation  over  the  banks  which  had 
hitherto  been  mostly  bare.  As  they  went,  from  point  to 
point  and  in  one  after  another  region  of  beauty,  her  com 
panion's  talk,  quietly  flowing  on,  called  her  attention  to 
one  and  another  observation  suggested  by  what  they 
were  looking  at ;  not  as  if  it  were  a  foreign  matter,  but 
with  a  tacit  intimation  that  it  concerned  her  or  had  a 
right  to  her  interest.  It  was  a  long  walk.  They  were 
some  time  before  reaching  the  old  tower ;  then  a  long 
stretch  of  beautiful  scenes  lay  between  them  and  the  old 
priory  ruins.  This  part  of  the  valley  was  in  the  highest 
degree  picturesque.  The  sides  drew  together,  close  and 
rocky  and  overshadowed  with  a  thicket  of  trees.  The 
path  of  the  river  became  steep  anc  encumbered ;  the 
way  along  its  banks  grew  comparative,/  rough  and  diffi 
cult.  The  day  was  delicious,  without  even  a  threatening 
of  rain ;  yet  the  sun  in  some  places  was  completely  shut 
out  from  the  water  by  the  overgrown,  overhanging  sides 
of  rock  and  wood  which  shut  in  the  dell.  Conversation 
was  broken  here,  by  the  pleasant  difficulty  of  pursuing 
the  wav.  Here  too  flowers  were  sweet  and  the  birds 


76  T  H  E     O  L  I>     H  E  I.  M  E  T  . 

busy.  The  way  was  enough  to  delight  any  lover  of 
nature;  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  delighted. 
Nevertheless  Eleanor  hailed  for  a  sake  not  its  own," 
every  bit  of  broken  ground  and  rough  walking  that 
made  connected  conversation  impossible ;  and  then  was 
glad  to  see  the  grey  walls  of  the  priory,  where  the  horses 

were   to  meet  them.       Once  in  the  saddle  again 

she  would  be  glad  to  be  there ! 

The  horses  were  not  in  sight  yet ;  they  strolled  into 
the  rum.  It  was  lovely  to-day  ;  the  sunlight  adding  its 
brightening  touch  to  all  that  moss  and  ivy  and  lichen  and 
fern  had  done.  They  sauntered  up  what  had  been  an 
aisle  of  the  church ;  carpeted  now  with  soft  shaven  turf, 
close  and  smooth.  ;.  • 

"  The  priory  was  founded  a  great  while  ago,"  said 
Mr.  Carlisle,  "  by  one  of  the  first  Lords  of  Rythdale,  on 
account  of  the  fact  that  he  had  slain  his  own  brother  in 
mortal  combat.  It  troubled  his  mind,  I  suppose,  even  in 
those  rough  times." 

"  And  he  built  the  church  to  soothe  it." 

"  Built  the  church  and  founded  the  establishment ; 
gave  it  all  the  lands  we  have  passed  through  to-day,  and 
much  more  ;  and  great  rights  on  hill  and  dale  and  moor. 
We  "have  them  nearly  all  back  again — by  one  happy 
chance  and  another." 

"  What  was  this  ?"  said  Eleanor,  seating  herself  on  a 
great  block  of  stone,  the  surface  of  which  was  rough 
with  decay. 

"  This  was  a  tombstone — tradition  says,  of  that  same 
slain  Lord  of  Ryihdals — but  I  think  it  very  hypothetical. 
However,  your  fancy  can  conjure  back  his  image,  if  you 
like,  lying  where  you  sit ;  covered  with  the  armour  he 
lived  his  life  in,  and  probably  with  hands  joined  to 
make  the  prayers  his  life  had  rendered  desirable." 

"  He  had  not  the  helmet — "  thought  Eleanor.  She 
got  up  to  look  at  the  stone ;  but  it  was  worn  away ;  no 


IN     THE     SADDLE.  77 

trace  of  the  knight  in  armour  who  had  lain  there  was 
any  longer  to  be  seen.     What  long  ago  times  those 
'  were ! 

"  And  then  the  old  monks  did  nothing  else  but  pray," 
she  remarked. 

"  A  few  other  things,"  said  her  companion  ;  "if  report 
is  true.  But  they  said  a  great  many  prayers,  it  is  cer 
tain.  It  was  Avhat  they  were  specially  put  here  for — to 
do  masses  for  that  old  stone  figure  that  used  to  lie  there. 
They  were  paid  well  for  doing  it.  I  hope  they  did  it." 

The  wind  stirred  gently  through  the  ruin,  bringing  a 
sweet  scent  of  herbs  and  flowers,  and  a  fern  or  an  ivy 
leaf  here  and  there  just  moved  lightly  on  its  stalk. 

"  They  must  have  lived  a  pleasant  sort  of  life,"  said 
Eleanor  musingly, —  "  in  this  beautiful  place  !" 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  entering  a  monastery  ?"  said 
her  companion  smiling.  It  brought  back  Eleanor's  con- 
ciousness,  which  had  been  for  a  moment  forgotten,  and 
the  deep  colour  flashed  to  her  face.  She  stood  confused. 
Mr.  Carlisle  did  not  lot  her  go  this  time  ;  he  took  both 
her  hands. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  be  satisfied  with  only 
negative  answers  from  you  ?"  said  he  changing  his  tone. 
"  What  have  you  got  to  say  to  me  ?" 

Eleanor  struggled  with  herself.  "  Nothing,  Mr.  Car 
lisle." 

"  Your  mother  has  conveyed  to  you  my  wishes  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor  softly. 

"  What  are  yours  ?" 

She  hesitated,  held  at  bay,  but  he  waited  ;  and  at  last 
with  a  little  of  her  frank  daring  breaking  out,  she  said, 
still  in  her  former  soft  voice,  "  I  would  let  things  alone." 

"Suppose  that  could  not  be, — would  you  send  me 
away,  or  let  me  come  near  to  you  ?" 
_,  Eleanor  could  not  send  him  aAvay ;  but  he  would  not 
come  near.     He  stood  keeping  her  hands  in  a  light  firm 


78  T  II  E     O  L  D     II  £  L  M  K  T . 

grasp  ;  she  felt  that  he  knew  his  hold  of  her  ;  her  head 
bowed  in  confusion. 

"  Speak,  darling,"  he  said.     "  Are  you  mine  ?" 

Eleanor  shrank  lower  and  lower  from  his  observation ; 
but  she  answered  in  a  whisper, — "  I  suppose  so." 

Her  hands  were  released  then,  only  to  have  herself 
taken  into  more  secure  possession.  She  had  given  her 
self  up ;  and  Mr.  Carlisle's  manner  said  that  to  touch  her 
theek  was  his  right  as  well  as  his  pleasure.  Eleanor  could 
lot  dispute  it ;  she  knew  that  Mr.  Carlisle  loved  her,  but 
she  certainly  thought  the  sense  of  power  had  great 
charms  for  him.  So  she  presently  thought,  had  the 
exercise  of  it. 

"  You  are  mine  now,"  he  said, — "  you  are  mine.  You 
are  Eleanor  Carlisle.  But  you  have  not  said  a  word  to 
me.  What  is  my  name  ?" 

"  Your  name  !"  stammered  Eleanor, — "  Carlisle." 

"  Yes,  but  the  rest  ?" 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Speak  it,  darling  ?" 

Now  Eleanor  had  no  mind  to  speak  that  or  anything 
else  upon  compulsion ;  it  should  be  a  grace  from  her 
lips,  not  the  compliance  with  a  requisition  ;  her  spirit  of 
resistance  sprung  up.  A  frank  refusal  was  on  her 
tongue,  and  her  head  which  had  been  drooping  was 
thrown  back  with  an  infinitely  pretty  air  of  defiance,  to 
give  it.  Thus  she  met  Mr.  Carlisle's  look ;  met  the 
bright  hazel  eyes  that  were  bent  upon  her,  full  of  affec 
tion  and  smiling,  but  with  something  else  in  them  as 
well ;  there  was  a  calm  power  of  exaction.  Eleanor 
read  it,  even  in  the  half  glance  which  took  in  incon 
gruously  the  graceful  figure  and  easy  attitude  ;  she  did 
not  feel  ready  for  contention  with  Mr.  Carlisle  ;  the  man's 
nature  was  dominant  over  the  woman's.  Eleanor's  head 
Btooped  again ;  she  spoke  obediently  the  required  wordg. 

"  Robert  Macintosh." 


I  2f     T  II  E     S  A  U  D  L  E  .  '/& 

The  kisses  which  met  her  lips  before  the  words  were 
well  out,  seemed  to  seal  the  whole  transaction.  Perhaps 
it  was  Eleanor's  fancy,  but  to  her  they  spoke  unqualified 
content  both  with  her  opposition  and  her  yielding.  She 
was  chafed  with  the  consciousness  that  she  had  been 
obliged  to  yield  ;  vexed  to  feel  that  she  was  not  her  own 
mistress  ;  even  while  the  kisses  that  stopped  her  lips  told 
her  how  much  love  mingled  with  her  captor's  power. 
There  was  no  questioning  that  fact ;  it  only  half  soothed 
Eleanor. 

Mr.  Carlisle  bade  her  sit  down  and  rest,  while  he  went 
to  see  if  the  horses  were  there.  Eleanor  sat  down  dream 
ily  on  the  old  tombstone,  and  in  the  space  of  three  min 
utes  went  over  whole  fields  of  thought.  Her  mind  was 
in  a  perverse  state.  Before  her  the  old  tower  of  the 
ruined  priory  rose  in  its  time-worn  beauty,  with  the 
young  honours  of  the  ivy  clinging  all  about  it ;  on  either 
side  of  her  stretched  the  grey,  ivied  and  mossy,  crumb 
ling  walls.  It  was  a  magnificent  place  ;  if  not  her  own 
mistress,  it  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  mistress  of  such 
as  that ;  and  a  vision  of  gay  grandeur  floated  over  her 
mind.  Still,  in  contrast  with  that  vision,  the  quiet, 
ruined  priory  tower  spoke  of  a  different  life — brought 
up  a  separate  vision ;  of  unworldly  possessions,  aims, 
hopes,  and  occupations ;  it  was  not  familiar  to  Eleanor's 
mind,  yet  now  somehow  it  rose  upon  her,  with  the  feel 
ing  of  that  once-wanted,  still  desired, — only  she  had  for 
gotten  it — armour  of  sectirity.  Why  did  she  think  of 
it  now  ?  was  it  because  Eleanor's  mind  was  in  that  dis 
ordered  state  which  lets  everything  come  to  the  surface 
by  turns ;  or  because  she  was  still  suffering  from 
vexation,  and  her  spirit  chose  contraries  with  a  natural 
readiness  and  relish  ?  It  was  not  more  than  three  min 
utes,  but  Eleanor  travelled  far  in  dream-land  ;  so  far  that 
the  sudden  feeling  of  two  hands  upon  her  shoulders, 
brought  her  back  with  even  a  visible  start.  She  was 


80  THE      OLD      II  EL  MET. 

rallied  and  laughed  at ;  then  her  hand  was  put  upon  Mr 
Carlisle's  arm  and  so  Eleanor  was  walked  out  to  where 
Black  Maggie  stood  waiting  for  her.  Of  course  she  felt 
that  her  engagement  was  to  be  made  known  to  all  the 
world  immediately.  Mr.  Carlisle's  servant  must  know 
it  now.  It  seemed  to  Eleanor  that  fine  bands  of  cob 
webs  had  been  cast  round  her,  binding  her  hands  and 
feet,  which  loved  their  liberty.  The  feeling  made  one 
little  imprudent  burst.  As  Mr.  Carlisle  put  Maggie's 
reins  into  her  hand,  he  repeated  what  he  had  before  said, 
that  Eleanor  should  use  her  voice  if  the  bridle  failed  to 
win  obedience. 

"  She  is  not  of  a  rebellious  disposition,"  he  added. 

"  Do  you  read  dispositions  ?"  said  Eleanor,  gathering 
up  the  reins!  He  stood  at  her  saddle-bow. 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Do  you  know  mine  ?" 

"Partially." 

"  It  is  what  you  say  Black  Maggie's  is  not." 

"  Is  it  ?    Take  the  reins  a  little  shorter,  Eleanor." 

It  is  difficult  to  say  how  much  there  may  be  in  two 
short  words ;  but  as  Mr.  Carlisle  went  round  to  the  other 
side  and  mounted,  he  left  his  little  lady  in  a  state  of 
fume.  Those  two  words  said  so  plainly  to  Eleanor's  ear, 
that  her  announcement  was*  neither  denied  nor  disliked. 
Nay,  they  expressed  pleasure ;  the  sort  of  pleasure  that 
a  man  has  in  a  spirited  horse  of  which  he  is  master.  It 
threw  Eleanor's  mind  into  a  tumult,  so  great  that  for  a 
minute  or  two  she  hardly  knew  what  she  was  about. 
But  for  the  sound,  sweet  good  temper,  which  in  spite  of 
Eleanor's  self-characterizing  was  part  of  her  nature,  she 
would  have  been  in  a  rage.  As  it  was,  she  only  handled 
Black  Maggie  in  a  more  stately  style  than  she  had  cared 
about  at  the  beginning  of  the  ride ;  putting  her  upon 
her  paces ;  and  so  rode  through  all  the  village,  in  a  way 
that  certainly  pleased  Mr.  Carlisle,  though  he  said  noth- 


IN     THE     SADDLE.  81 

ing  about  it.  He  contrived  however  to  aid  in  the 
soothing  work  done  by  Black  Maggie's  steps,  so  that 
long  before  Ivy  Lodge  was  reached  Eleanor's  smile 
came  free  and  sweet  again,  and  her  lip  lost  its  ominous 
curve. 

"You  area  darling!"  Mr.  Carlisle  whispered  as  he 
took  her  down  from  her  horse. 

Eleanor  went  on  into  the  drawing-room.  He  followed 
her.  Nobody  was  there. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me,  Eleanor  ?"  he  said  as 
he  held  her  hand  before  parting. 

"  Nothing  whatever,  Mr.  Carlisle."  Eleanor's  frank 
brilliant  smile  gleamed  mischievously  upon  him. 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  a  word  of  kindness  before 
I  go  ?" 

"  No !  Mr.  Carlisle,  if  I  had  my  own  way,"  said 
Eleanor  switching  her  riding-whip  nervously  about  her 
habit, — "  I  would  be  my  own  mistress  for  a  good  while 
longer." 

"  Shall  I  give  you  back  your  liberty  ?"  said  he,  draw 
ing  her  into  his  arms.  Eleanor  was  silent.  Their  touch 
manifested  no  such  intention.  He  bent  his  head  lower 
and  said  softly,  "  Kiss  me,  Eleanor." 

There  was  as  before,  just  that  mingling  of  affection 
and  exaction  which  conquered  her.  She  knew  all  she 
was  giving,  but  she  half  dared  not  and  half  cared  not 
to  refuse. 

"  You  little  witch — "  said  he  as  he  took  possession  of 
the  just  permitted  lips, — "  I  will  punish  you  for  your 
naughtiness,  by  taking  you  home  very  soon — into  my 
own  management." 

Mrs.  Powle  was  in  Eleanor's  room  when  she  entered 
waiting  there  for  her. 

"Well  Eleanor,"  she  began, — "is  it  settled?  Are 
you  to  be  Lady  Rythdale  ?" 

"  If  Mr.  Carlisle  has  his  will,  ma'am." 
4* 


82  THEOLD     HELMET. 

"  And  what  is  your  will  ?" 

•'I  have  none  any  longer.  But  if  you  and  he  try 
to  hurry  on  the  day,  mamma,  it  shall  never  come, — • 
never !"  ... 

Mrs.  Powle  thought  she  would  leave  that  matter  in 
more  skilful  hands ;  and  went  away  well  satisfied. 


CHAPTEE    V. 

"  This  floating  life  hath  but  this  port  of  rest, 
A  heart  prepared,  that  fears  no  ill  to  come." 

THE  matter  was  in  skilful  hands ;  for  the  days  rolled 
on,  after  that  eventful  excursion,  with  great  smoothness. 
Mr.  Carlisle  kept  Eleanor  busy,  with'  some  pleasant  little 
excitement,  every  day  varied.  She  was  made  to  taste 
the  sweets  of  her  new  position,  and  to  depend  more  and 
more  upon  the  hand  that  introduced  her  to  them.  Mr. 
Carlisle  ministered  carefully  to  her  tastes.  Eleanor  daily 
was  well  mounted,  generally  on  Maggie ;  and  enjoyed 
her  heart's  delight  of  a  gallop  over  the  moor,  or  a  more 
moderate  pace  through  a  more  rewarding  scenery  Mr. 
Carlisle  entered  into  the  spirit  of  her  gardening  pur 
suits  ;  took  her  to  his  mother's  conservatory  ;  and  found 
that  he  never  pleased  Eleanor  better  than  when  he 
plunged  her  into  the  midst  of  flowers.  He  took  good 
care  to  advance  his  own  interests  all  the  time ;  and 
advanced  them  fast  and  surely.  He  had  Eleanor's  liking 
before  ;  and  her  nature  was  too  sweet  and  rich  not  to 
incline  towards  the  person  whom  she  had  given  such  a 
position  with  herself,  yielding  to  him  more  and  more  of 
faith  and  aifection.  And  that  in  spite  of  what  sometimes 
chafed  her ;  the  quiet  sway  she  felt  Mr.  Carlisle  had 
over  her,  beneath  which  she  was  powerless.  Or  rather, 
perhaps  she  inclined  towards  him  secretly  the  more  on 
account  of  it ;  for  to  women  of  rich  natures  there  is 
something  attractive  in  being  obliged  to  look  up  ;  and 
to  women  of  all  natures  it  is  imposing.  So  Mr.  Car- 


84  THE       OLD     HELMET. 

lisle's  threat,  by  Eleanor  so  stoutly  resisted  and  resented, 
was  extremely  likely  to  come  to  pass.  Mrs.  Powle  was 
too  wise  to  touch  her  finger  to  the  game. 

Several  weeks  went  by,  during  which  Eleanor  had  no 
chance  to  think  of  anything  but  Mr.  Cai'lisle  and  the 
matters  he  presented  for  her  notice.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  he  was  obliged  to  go  up  to  London  on  sudden 
business.  It  made  a  great  lull  in  the  house ;  and  Elea 
nor  began  to  sit  in  her  garden  pai'lour  again  and  dream. 
While  dreaming  one  day,  she  heard  the  voice  of  her  lit 
tle  sister  sobbing  at  the  door-step.  She  had  not  observed 
before  that  she  was  sitting  there. 

"  Julia !"  said  Eleanor—"  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

Julia  would  not  immediately  say,  but  then  faltered 
out,  "Mr.  Rhys." 

"  Mr.  Rhys  !     What  of  him  ?" 

"  He's  sick.     He's  going  to  die,  I  know." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  is  sick  ?  Come,  stop  crying, 
Julia,  and  speak.  What  makes  you  think  he  is  sick  ?" 

"  Because  he  just  lies  on  the  sofa,  and  looks  so  white, 
and  he  can't  keep  school.  He  sent  away  the  boys  yes 
terday." 

"  Does  he  see  the  doctor  ?" 

"  No.  I  don't  know.  No,  I  know  he  don't,"  said 
Julia ;  "  because  the  old  woman  said  he  ought  to  see 
him." 

"  What  old  woman,  child  ?" 

"  His  old  woman — Mrs.  Williams.  And  mamma  said 
I  might  have  some  jelly  and  some  sago  for  him — and 
there  is  nobody  to  take  it.  Foster  is  out  of  the  way, 
and  Jack  is  busy,  and  I  can't  get  anybody." 

Julia's  tears  were  very  sincere. 

"  Stop  crying,  child,  and  I  will  go  with  you  myself. 
I  have  not  had  a  walk  to-day,  or  a  ride,  or  anything. 
Come,  get  ready,  and  you  and  I  will  take  it." 

Julia  did  not   wait  even  for  thanks ;  she  was  never 


AT     THE     COTTAGE.  85 

given  to  be  ceremonious ;  but  sprang  away  to  do  as  her 
sister  bad.  said.  In  a  few  minutes  they  were  off,  going 
through  the  garden,  each  with  a  little  basket  in  her 
hand.  Julia's  tears  were  exchanged  for  the  most  sun 
shiny  gladness. 

It  was  a  sunshiny  day  altogether,  in  the  end  of  sum 
mer,  and  the  heat  was  sultry.  Neither  sister  minded 
weather  of  any  sort ;  nevertheless  they  chose  the  shady 
side  of  the  road  and  went  very  leisurely,  along  by  the 
hedgerows  and  under  the  elms  and  beeches  with  which 
all  the  way  to  the  village  was  more  or  less  shaded.  It 
was  a  long  walk,  even  to  the  village.  The  cottage  where 
Mr.  Rhys  had  his  abode  was  yet  further  on.  The  vil 
lage  must  be  passed  on  the  way  to  it. 

It  was  a  long  line  of  cottages,  standing  for  the  most 
part  on  one  side  the  street  only ;  the  sweet  hedgerow 
on  the  other  side  only  here  and  there  broken  by  a  white 
wicket  gate.  The  houses  were  humble  enough  ;  yet  in 
universal  neat  order  on  the  outside  at  least ;  in  many 
instances  grown  over,  with  climbing  roses  and  ivy,  and 
overhung  with  deep  thatched  roofs.  They  stood  scat- 
teringly ;  gardens  and  sometimes  small  crofts  interven 
ing  ;  and  noble  growth  of  old  oaks  and  young  elms 
shading  the  way ;  the  whole  as  neat,  fresh,  and  pic 
turesque  in  rural  comfort  and  beauty,  as  could  be  seen 
almost  anywhere  in  England.  The  lords  of  Rythdale 
held  sway  here,  and  nothing  under  their  rule,  of  late, 
was  out  of  order.  But  there  were  poor  people  in  the 
village,  and  very  poor  old  houses,  though  skilfully  turned 
to  the  account  of  beauty  in  the  outward  view.  Eleanor 
was  well  known  in  them ;  and  now  Mrs.  Benson  came 
out  to  the  gate  and  told  how  she  was  to  move  to  her 
new  home  in  another  fortnight ;  and  begged  the  sisters 
would  come  in  to  rest  themselves  from  the  sun.  And 
old  Mrs.  Shepherd  curtsied  in  her  doorway ;  and  Mat. 
Grimson's  wife,  the  blacksmith  that  was,  came  to  stop 


86  T  H  E      O  I,  D      II  E  L  M  E  T  . 

Eleanor  with  a  roundabout  representation  how  her  hus 
band's  business  would  thrive  so  much  better  in  another 
situation.  Eleanor  was  seldom  on  foot  in  the  village 
now.  She  passed  that  as  soon  as  she  could  and  went  on. 
From  her  window  on  the  other  side  of  the  lane,  Miss 
Broadus  nodded,  and  beckoned  too ;  but  the  sisters 
would  not  be  delayed. 

"  It  is  good  Mr.  Carlisle  has  gone  to  London,"  said 
Julia.  "  He  would  not  have  let  you  come." 

Eleanor  felt  stung. 

"  Why  do  you  say  so,  Julia  ?" 

"  Why  you  always  do  what  he  tells  you,"  said  Julia, 
who  was  not  apt  to  soften  her  communications.  "  He 
says  '  Eleanor' — and  you  go  that  way ;  and  he  says 
'  Eleanor' — and  you  go  the  other  way." 

"  And  why  do  you  suppose  he  would  have  any  objec 
tion  to  my  going  this  way  ?" 

"  I  know" — said  Julia.  "  I  am  glad  he  is  in  London. 
I  hope  he'll  stay  there." 

Eleanor  made  no  answer  but  to  switch  her  dress  and 
the  bushes  as  they  went  by,  with  a  little  rod  in  her  hand. 
There  was  more  truth  in  the  allegation  than  it  pleased 
her  to  remember.  She  did  not  always  feel  her  bonds  at 
the  time,  they  were  so  gently  put  on  and  the  spell  of 
another's  Avill  was  so  natural  and  so  irresistible.  But  it 
chafed  her  to  be  reminded  of  it  and  to  feel  that  it  was  so 
openly  exerted  and  her  own  subjugation  so  complete. 
The  switching  went  on  vigorously,  taking  the  bushes  and 
her  muslin  dress  impartially ;  and  Eleanor's  mind  was  so 
engrossed  that  she  did  not  perceive  how  suddenly  the 
weather  was  changing.  They  had  passed  through  the 
village  and  left  it  behind,  when  Julia  exclaimed,  "There's 
a  storm  coming,  Eleanor !  maybe  we  can  get  in  before  it 
rains."  It  was  an  undeniable  fact ;  and  without  further 
parley  both  sisters  set  off  to  run,  seeing  that  there  were 


AT     THE      COTTAGE.  87 

very  few  minutes  to  accomplish  Julia's  hope.     It  began 
sprinkling  already. 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  real  storm,"  said  Julia  gleefully. 
"  Over  the  moor  it's  as  black  as  thunder.  I  saw  it 
through  the  trees." 

"  But  where  are  you  going  ? — "  For  Julia  had  left  the 
road,  or  rather  lane,  and  dashed  down  a  path  through 
the  trees  leading  off  from  it. 

"  O  this  is  the  best — this  leads  round  to  the  other  side 
of  the  house,"  Julia  said. 

Just  as  well,  to  go  in  at  the  kitchen,  Eleanor 
thought ;  and  let  Julia  find  her  way  with  her  sago  and 
jelly  to  Mr.  Rhys's  room  if  she  so  inclined.  So  they  ran 
on,  reached  a  little  strip  of  open  ground  at  the  back  of 
the  cottage,  and  rushed  in  at  the  door  like  a  small  tor 
nado  ;  for  the  rain  was  by  this  time  coming  down 
,merrily. 

The  first  thing  Eleanor  saw  when  she  had  pulled  off 
her  flat, — was  that  she  was  not  in  a  kitchen.  A  table 
with  writing  implements  met  her  eye  ;  and  turning,  she 
discovered  the  person  one  of  them  at  least  had  come  to 
see,  lying  on  a  sort  of  settee  or  rude  couch,  with  a  pil 
low  under  his  head.  He  looked  pale  enough,  and 
changed,  and  lay  wrapped  in  a  dressing-gown.  If 
Eleanor  was  astonished,  so  certainly  was  he.  But  he 
rose  to  his  feet,  albeit  scarce  able  to  stand,  and  received 
his  visiters  with  a  simplicity  and  grace  of  nature  which 
was  in  singular  contrast  with  all  the  dignities  of  conven 
tional  life. 

"  Mr.  Rhys  !"  stammered  Eleanor,  "  I  had  no  idea  we 
were  breaking  into  your  room.  I  thought  Julia  was 
taking  me  into  Mrs.  Williams's  part  of  the  house." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you !"  he  said ;  and  the  words 
were  endorsed  by  the  pleasant  grave  face  and  the  earn 
est  grasp  of  the  hand.  But  how  ill  and  thin  he  looked  ! 
Eleanor  was  shocked. 


88  THE     OLD     HELMET 

"  It  was  beginning  to  rain,"  she  repeated,  "  and  I  fol 
lowed  where  Julia  led  me.  I  thought  she  was  bi%inging 
me  to  Mrs.  Williams's  premises.  I  beg  you  will  excuse 
me." 

"  I  have  made  Mrs.  Williams  give  me  this  part  of  the 
house  because  I  think  it  is  the  pleasantest.  Won't  you 
do  me  the  honour  to  sit  down  ?" 

He  was  bringing  a  chair  for  her,  but  looked  BO  little 
able  for  it  that  Eleanor  took  it  from  his  hand. 

"  Please  put  yourself  on  the  sofa  again,  Mr.  Rhys —  * 
We  will  not  interrupt  you  a  moment." 

"  Yes  you  will,"  said  Julia,  "  unless  you  want  to  walk 
in  the  rain.  Mr.  Rhys,  are  you  better  to-day  ?" 

"  I  am  as  well  as  usual,  thank  you,  Julia." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  is  not  very  well,  Mr.  Rhys," 
said  Eleanor. 

"  Not  very  strong — "  he  said  with  the  smile  that  sli£ 
remembered,  as  he  sank  back  in  the  corner  of  the  couch 
and  rested  his  head  on  his  hand.  His  look  and  manner 
altogether  gave  her  a  strange  feeling.  Ill  and  pale  and 
grave  as  he  was,  there  was  something  else  about  him 
different  from  all  that  she  had  touched  in  her  own  life 
for  weeks.  It  was  a  new  atmosphere. 

"  Ladies,  I  hope  you  are  not  wet  ?"  he  said  presently. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Eleanor ;  "  nothing  to  signify. 
We  shall  dry  ourselves  in  the  sun  walking  back." 

"  I  think  the  sun  is  not  going  to  be  out  immediately." 

He  rose  and  with  slow  steps  made  his  way  to  the 
inner  door  and  spoke  to  some  one  within.  Eleanor  took 
a  view  of  her  position.  The  rain  was  coming  down 
furiously ;  no  going  home  just  yet  was  possible.  That 
was  the  out-of-door  prospect.  Within,  she  was  a  pris 
oner.  The  room  was  a  plain  little  room,  plain  as  a  room 
could  be ;  with  no  adornments  or  luxuries.  Some  books 
were  piled  on  deal  shelves  ;  others  covered  two  tables. 
A  large  portfolio  stood  in  one  corner.  On  one  of  the 


AT     THE     COTTAGE.  89 

tables  were  pens,  ink  and  paper,  not  lying  loose,  but  put 
up  in  order ;  as  not  used  nor  wanted  at  present.  Several 
boxes  of  various  sorts  and  sizes  made  up  the  rest  of  the 
furniture,  with  a  few  chairs  of  very  simple  fashion.  It 
was  Mr.  Rhys's  own  room  they  were  in ;  and  all  that 
could  be  said  of  it  was  its  nicety  of  order.  Two  little 
windows  with  the  door  might  give  view  "of  something 
in  fair  weather  ;  at  present  they  shewed  little  but  grey 
rain  and  a  dim  vision  of  trees  seen  through  the  rain. 
Eleanor  wanted  to  get  away ;  but  it  was  impossible. 
She  must  talk. 

"  You  cannot  judge  of  my  prospect  now,"  Mr.  Rhys 
said  as  she  turned  to  him. 

"  Not  in  this  rain.  But  I  should  think  you  could  not 
see  much  at  any  time,  except  trees." 

"  Much"  is  comparative.  No,  I  do  not  see  much ;  but 
there  is  an  opening  from  my  window,  through  which 
the  eye  goes  a  long  way — across  a  long  distance  of  the 
moor.  It  is  but  a  gleam ;  however  it  serves  a  good 
purpose  for  me." 

An  old  woman  here  came  in  with  "a  bundle  of  sticks 
and  began  to  lay  them  for  a  fire.  She  was  an  old-crone 
looking  person.  Eleanor  observed  her,  and  thought 
what  it  must  be  to  have  no  nurse  or  companion  but 
that. 

"  We  have  missed  you  at  the  Lodge,  Mr.  Rhys." 

"  Thank  you.  I  am  missing  from  all  my  old  haunts, — " 
he  answered  gravely.  And  the  thought  and  the  look 
went  to  something  from  which  he  was  very  sorry  to  be 
missing. 

"  But  you  will  be  soon  well  again — will  you  not  ?  and 
among  us  again." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said.  "  I  am  sometimes  inclined 
to  think  my  work  is  done." 

"  What  work,  Mr.  Rhys  ?"  said  Julia.  "  Ferns,  do 
you  mean  ?" 


90  T  II  BOLD    HELMET. 

"  NO." 

"  What  work,  Mr.  Rhys?" 

"  I  mean  the  Lord's  work,  Julia,  which  he  has  given 
me  to  do." 

"  Do  you  mean  preaching  ?" 

"That  is  part  of  it." 

"  What  else  is  your  work,  Mr.  Rhys  ?"  said  Julia, 
hanging  about  the  couch  with  an  affectionate  eye.  So 
affectionate,  that  her  sister's  rebuke  of  her  forwardness 
was  checked. 

"  Doing  all  I  can,  Julia,  in  every  way,  to  tell  people 
of  the  Lord  Jesus." 

"  Was  that  the  work  you  were  going  to  that  horrid 
place  to  do  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Then  I  am  glad  you  are  sick !" 

"  That  is  very  unkind  of  you, — "  said  he  with  a  grav 
ity  which  Eleanor  was  not  sure  was  real. 

"  It  is  better  for  you  to  be  sick  than  to  go  away  from 
England,"  said  Julia  decidedly. 

"  But  if  I  am  not  well  enough  to  go  there,  I  shall  go 
somewhere  else." 

"Where?" 

"  What  have  you  got  in  that  saucer  ?" 

"  Jelly  for  you.  Won't  you  eat  it,  Mr.  Rhys  ?  There 
is  sago  in  the  basket.  It  will  do  you  good." 

"  Will  you  not  offer  your  sister  some  ?" 

"  No.  She  gets  plenty  at  home.  Eat  it,  Mr.  Rhys, 
won't  you  ?" 

He  took  a  few  spoonfuls,  smiled  at  her,  and  told  her 
it  was  very  good.  It  was  a  smile  worth  having.  But 
both  sisters  saw  that  he  looked  fearfully  pale  and  worn. 

"  I  must  see  if  Mrs.  Williams  has  not  some  berries  to 
offer  you,"  he  said. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Mr.  Rhys,  if  you  do  not  go  to 
that  place  ?"  Julia  persisted. 


A  T     THE     COT  T  A  G  E  .  91 

"  If  I  do  not  go  there,  I  think  I  shall  go  home." 

"Home?" 

"Yes." 

"  Where  is  that  ?"  said  Julia  hanging  about  him. 

"  I  meant  my  everlasting  home,  Julia." 

"  O  don't,  Mr.  Rhys  !"  cried  the  child  in  a  half  vexed 
tone.  "  Eat  some  more  jelly — do  !" 

"  I  am  very  willing  to  stay,  Julia,  if  my  Master  has 
work  for  me  to  do." 

"  You  had  charge  of  a  chapel  at  Lily  Dale,  Mr.  Rhys, 
I  am  told  ?"  Eleanor  said,  feeling  awkward. 

"  No — at  Croydon,  beyond." 

"  At  Croydon  !  that  is  nine  miles  off.  How  did  you 
get  there  ?" 

The  question  escaped  Eleanor.  He  hesitated,  and 
answered  simply,  "I  had  no  way  but.to  walk.  I  found 
that  very  pleasant  in  summer  mornings." 

"  Walk  to  Croydon  and  back  and  preach  there !  I  do 
not  wonder  you  are  sick,  Mr.  Rhys." 

"  I  did  not  walk  back  the  same  day." 

"But  then  where  did  you  go  in  the  evenings  to 
preach  ?"  said  Julia. 

"  That  was  not  so  far  off." 

"Did  you  serve  two  chapels  on  the  same  day,  Mr. 
Rhys  ?"  Eleanor  asked. 

"  No.  The  evenings  Julia  speaks  of  I  preached  nearer 
home." 

"  And  school  all  the  week !"  said  Eleanor. 

"  It  was  no  hardship,"  he  said  with  a  most  pleasant 
smile  at  her.  "  The  King's  work  required  haste — there 
were  many  people  at  both  places  who  had  not  heard  the 
truth  or  had  not  learned  to  love  it.  There  are  still." 

His  face  grew  very  grave  as  he  spoke  ;  grave  even  to 
sadness  as  he  added,  "  They  are  dying  without  the 
knowledge  of  the  true  life  !" 

"  Where  was  the  other  chapel  you  went  to  ?" 


&2  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

"  Rythtnoor." 

Eleanor  hurried  on.  "  But  Mr.  Rhys,  will  you  allow 
me  to  ask  you  a  question  that  puzzles  me  ?" 

"  I  beg  you  will  do  so  !" 

"  It  is  just  this.  If  there  are  so  many  in  England  that 
want  teaching — But  I  beg  your  pardon !  I  am  afraid 
talking  tires  you." 

"  I  assure  you  it  is  very  pleasant  to  me.  Will  you 
go  on." 

"  If  there  are  so  many  in  England  that  want  teaching, 
why  should  you  go  to  such  a  place  as  that  Julia  talks 
of?" 

"  They  are  further  yet  from  help." 

"But  is  not  the  work  here  as  good  as  the  work 
there  ?" 

"  I  am  cut  off  from  both,"  he  said.  "  I  long  to  go  to 
them.  But  the  Lord  has  his  own  plans.  '  Why  art 
thou  cast  down,  O  my  soul;  and  why  art  thou  disquieted 
within  me  ?  Hope  thou  in  God  !' — " 

The  grave,  sweet,  tender,  strong  intonation  of  these 
words,  slowly  uttered,  moved  Eleanor  much.  Not 
towards  tears  ;  the  effect  was  rather  a  great  shaking  of 
heart.  She'  saw  a  glimpse  of  a  life  she  had  never 
dreamed  of;  a  power  touched  her  that  had  never  touched 
her  before.  This  life  was  something  quite  unearthly  in 
its  spirit  and  aims ;  the  power  was  the  power  of  holi 
ness. 

It  is  difficiilt  or  impossible  to  say  in  words  how  this 
influence  made  itself  felt.  In  the  writing  of  the  lines 
of  the  face,  in  the  motion  of  the  lips,  in  the  indefin 
able  tones  of  voice,  in  the  air  and  manner,  there  comes 
out  constantly  in  all  characters  an  atmosphere  of  the 
truth,  which  the  words  spoken,  whether  intended  or  not 
intended,  do  not  convey.  Even  unintentional  feigning 
fails  here,  and  even  self-deception  is  belied.  The  if  uth  of 
a  character  will  make  itself  felt  and  influential,  for  good 


AT     THE     COTTAGE.  93 

or  evil,  through  all  disguises.  So  it  was,  that  though  the 
words  of  Mr.  Rhys  might  have  been  said  by  anybody, 
the  impression  they  produced  belonged  to  him  alone,  of 
all  the  people  Eleanor  had  ever  seen  in  her  life.  The 
"  helmet  of  salvation"  was  on  this  man's  head,  and  gave 
it  a  dignity  more  than  that  of  a  kingly  crown.  She  sat 
thinking  so,  and  recalling '  her  lost  wishes  of  the  early 
summer  ;  forgetting  to  carry  on  the  conversation. 

Meanwhile  the  old  woman  of  the  cottage  came  in 
again  with  a  fresh  supply  of  sticks,  and  a  blaze  began  to 
brighten  in  the  chimney.  Julia  exclaimed  in  delight. 
Eleanor  looked  at  the  window.  The  rain  still  came 
down  heavily.  She  remembered  the  thunderstorm  in 
June,  and  her  fears.  Then  Mr.  Rhys  begged  her  to  go 
to  the  fire  and  dry  herself,  and  again  spoke  some"  unin 
telligible  words  to  the  old  attendant. 

"  What  is  that,  Mr.  Rhys  ?"  said  Julia,  who  seldom 
refrained  from  asking  anything  she  wished  to  know. 

"  I  was  enquiring  of  Mrs.  Williams  whether  she  had 
not  some  fresh  gathered  berries  she  could  bring  for  your 
refreshment." 

"  But  I  mean,  what  language  did  you  speak  to  her?" 

"  Welsh." 

"  Are  you  Welsh  ?" 

"No,"  said  he  smiling;  "but  I  have  Welsh  blood; 
and  I  had  a  Welsh  nurse,  Julia." 

"  I  do  not  want  any  refreshment,  Mr.  Rhys ;  but  I 
would  like  some  berries." 

"  I  hope  you  would  like  to  ask  pardon  of  Mr.  Rhys 
for  your  freedom,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  am  sure  you 
need  it." 

"  Why  Mrs.  Williams  very  often  gives  me  berries," 
said  Julia  ;  "  and  they  always  taste  better  than  ours.  I 
mean,  Mr.  Rhys  gives  me  some." 

Eleanor  busied  herself  over  the  fire,  in  drying  her 
muslin  dress.  That  did  very  well  instead  of  talking. 


94  T  II  E     O  L  D     II  E  L  M  E  T  . 

Mrs.  Williams  presently  came  in  again,  bearing  a  little 
tray  with  berries  and  a  pot  of  cream.  Julia  eagerly 
played  lr  istess  and  dealt  them  out.  The  service  was 
most  homely  ;  nevertheless  the  wild  berries  deserved  her 
commendation.  The  girls  sat  by  the  fire  and  eat,  and 
their  host  from  the  corner  of  his  couch  watched  them 
with  his  keen  eyes.  It  was  rather  a  romantic  adventure 
altogether,  Eleanor  thought,  in  the  midst  of  much  graver 
thoughts.  But  Julia  had  quite  got  her  spirits  up. 

"Aren't  they  good,  Eleanor  ?  They  are  better  berries 
than  those  that  came  from  the  Priory.  Mr.  Rhys,  do. 
you  know  that  after  Eleanor  is  Mrs.  Carlisle,  she  will  be 
Lady  Rythdale  ?" 

This  shot  drove  Eleanor  into  desperation.  She  would 
have  started  aside,  to  hide  her  cheeks,  but  it  was  no  use. 
Mr.  Rhys  had  risen  to  add  some  more  cream  to  her 
saucer — perhaps  on  purpose. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said  simply.  "  Has  she  made  ar 
rangements  to  secure  an  everlasting  crown,  after  the 
earthly  coronet  shall  have  faded  away  ?" 

The  question  was  fairly  put  to  Eleanor.  It  gave  a 
turn  to  her  confusion,  yet  hardly  more  manageable ;  for 
the  gentle,  winning  tones  in  which  it  was  made  found 
their  way  down  to  some  very  deep  and  unguarded  spot 
in  her  consciousness.  No  one  had  ever  probed  her  as 
this  man  dared  to  do.  Eleanor  could  hardly  sit  still. 
The  berries  had  no  more  any  taste  to  her  after  that.  Yet 
the  question  demanded  an  answer ;  and  after  hesitating 
long  she  found  none  better  than  to  say,  as  she  set  down 
her  saucer,  • 

«  No,  Mr.  Rhys." 

•  Doubtless  he  read  deeper  than  the  words  of  her  an 
swer,  but  he  made  no  remai'k.  She  would  have  been 
glad  he  had. 

The  shower  seemed  to  be  slackening ;  and  while  Julia 
entered  into  lively  conversation  over  her  berries,  Eleanor 


ATTIIECOTTAGE.  95 

went  to  the  window.  She  was  doubtfully  conscious  of 
anything  but  discomfort ;  however  she  did  perceive  that 
the  rain  was  falling  less  thickly  and  light  beginning  to 
break  through  the  clouds.  As  she  turned  from  the  win. 
dow  she  forced  herself  to  speak. 

"  What  is  there  we  can  do  for  you  at  home,  Mr. 
Rhys  ?  Mrs.  Williams'  resources,  I  am  sure,  must  be 
very  insufficient." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  !"  he  said  heartily. 
"  There  is  nothing  that  I  know  of.  I  have  all  that  I 
require." 

"  You  are  better  than  you  were  ?  you  are  gaining 
strength  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  not.     I  am  quite  useless  now." 
"  But  you  will  get  better  soon  and  be  useful  again." 
"  If  it  pleases  my  Master  ; — but  I  think  not." 
"  Do  you  consider  yourself  so  seriously  ill,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 
said  Eleanor  looking  shocked. 

"  Do  not  take  it  so  seriously,"  said  he  smiling  at  her. 
"  No  harm  can  come  to  me  any  way.  It  is  far  worse 
than  death  for  me,  to  be  cut  oif  from  doing  my  work ; 
and  a  while  ago  the  thought  of  this  troubled  me;  it  gave 
me  some  dark  hours.  But  at  last  I  rested  myself  on 
that  word,  '  Why  art  thou  cast  down,  O  my  soul  ?  Hope 
thoti  in  God  !'  and  now  I  am  content  about  it.  Life  or 
death — neither  can  bring  but  good  to  me ;  for  my  Father 
sends  it.  You  know,"  he  said,  again  with  a  smile  at  her 
but  with  a  keen  observant  eye, — "they  who  are  the 
Lord's  wear  an  invisible  casque,  which  preserves  them 
from  all  fear." 

He  saw  that  Eleanor's  face  was  grave  and  troubled ; 
he  saw  that  at  this  last  word  there  was  a  sort  of  avoid 
ance  of  feature,  as  if  it  reached  a  spot  of  feeling  some 
where  that  was  sensitive.  He  added  nothing  more, 
except  the  friendly  grasp  of  the  hand,  which  drove  the 
weapon  home. 


96  T  II  E     O  I.  D     II  E  L  M  E  T  . 

The  rain  had  ceased ;  the  sun  was  out ;  and  the  two 
girls  set  forward  on  their  return.  They  hurried  at  first, 
for  the  afternoon  had  worn'  away.  The  rain  drops  lay 
thick  and  sparkling  on  every  blade  of  grass,  and  dripped 
upon  them  from  the  trees. 

"  Now  you  will  get  your  feet  wet  again,"  said  Julia  ; 
"  and  then  you  will  have  another  sickness  ;  and  Mr.  Car 
lisle  will  be  angry." 

"  Do  let  Mr.  Carlisle's  anger  alone !"  said  Eleanor. 
"  I  shall  not  sit  down  in  wet  shoes,  so  I  shall  not  get 
hurt.  Did  you  ever  see  him  angry  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Julia ;  "  and  I  am  glad  he  won't  be  angry 
with  me  ?" 

In  spite  of  her  words,  the  wet  grass  gave  Eleanor  a 
disagreeable  reminder  of  what  wet  grass  had  done  for 
her  some  months  before.  The  remembrance  of  her  sick 
ness  came  up  with  the  immediate  possibility  of  its  return 
ing  again ;  the  little  feeling  of  danger  and  exposure 
gave  power  to  the  things  she  had  just  heard.  She  could 
not  banish  them  ;  she  recalled  freshly  the  miserable  fear 
and  longing  of  those  days  when  she  lay  ill  and  knew  not 
how  her  illness  would  turn ;  the  fearful  want  of  a  shelter ; 
the  comparative  littleness  of  all  things  under  the  sun. 
Rythdale  Priory  had  not  been  worth  a  feather  in  that 
day ;  all  the  gay  pleasures  and  hopes  of  the  summer 
could  have  found  no  entrance  into  her  heart  then.  And 
as  she  was  then,  so  Eleanor  knew  herself  now — defence 
less,  if  danger  came.  And  the  wet  grass  into  which 
every  footstep  plunged  said  that  danger  might  be  at  any 
time  very  near.  Eleanor  wished  bitterly  that  she  had  not 
come  this  walk  with  Julia.  It  was  strange,  how  utterly 
shaken,  miserable,  forlorn,  her  innermost  spirit  felt,  at 
this  possible  approach  of  evil  to  her  shelterless  head. 
And  with  .double  force,  though  they  had  been  forcible  at 
the  time,  Mr.  Rhys's  words  recurred  to  her — the  words 
that  he  had  spoken  half  to  himself  as  it  were — "  Hope 


AT     THE     COTTAGE.  97 

thou  in  God."  Eleanor  had  heai'd  those  words,  read  by 
different  lips,  at  different  times ;  they  were  not  new ; 
but  the  meaning  of  them  had  never  struck  her  before. 
Now  for  the  first  time,  as  she  heard  the  low,  sweet,  con 
fident  utterance  of  a  soul  fleeing  to  its  stronghold,  of  a 
spirit  absolutely  secure  there,  she  had  an  idea  of  what 
"  hope  in  God"  meant ;  and  every  time  she  remembered 
the  tones  of  those  words,  spoken  by  failing  lips  too,  it 
gave  a  blow  to  her  heart.  There  was  something  she 
wanted.  What  else  could  be  precious  like  that  ?  And 
with  them  belonged  in  this  instance,  Eleanor  felt,  a 
purity  of  character  till  now  unimagined.  Thoughts  and 
footsteps  hurrying  along  together,  they  were  past  the 
village  and  far  on  their  way  towards  home,  the  two  sis 
ters,  before  much  was  said  between  them. 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Rhys  would  get  well  and  stay  here," 
said  Julia.  "  It  is  nice  to  go  to  see  him,  is'nt  it,  Elea 
nor  ?  He  is  so  good." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  nice,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I 
wish  almost  I  had  not  gone  with  you.  I  have  not 
thought  of  disagreeable  things  before  in  a  great  while." 

"  But  is'nt  he  good  ?" 

"  Good !"  said  Eleanor.  "  He  mak^s  me  feel  as  black 
as  night." 

"  Well  you  aren't  black,"  said  Julia,  pleased  ;  "  and 
I'll  tell  Mr.  Carlisle  what  you  say.  He  won't  be  angry 
that  time." 

"  Julia  !"  said  Eleanor.  "  Do  if  you  dare  !  You  shall 
repeat  no  words  of  mine  to  Mr.  Carlisle." 

Julia  only  laughed  ;  and  Eleanor  hoped  that  the  gen 
tleman  would  stay  in  London  till  her  purpose,  whatever 
it  might  be,  \yas  .forgotten.  He  did  stay  some  days  ; 
the  Lodge  had  a  comparatively  quiet  time.  Perhaps 
Eleanor  missed  the  constant  excitement  of  the  weeks 
past.  She  was  very  restless,  and  her  thoughts  would 
not  be  diverted  from  the  train  into  which  the  visit  to 

5 


98  THR     OLD     HELMET. 

Mr.  Rhys  had  thrown  them.  Obstinately  the  idea  kept 
before  her,  that  a  defence  was  wanting  to  her  which  she 
had  not,  and  might  have.  She  wanted  some  security 
greater  than  dry  shoes  could  afford.  Yea,  she  could  not 
forget,  that  beyond  that  earthly  coronet  which  of  neces 
sity  must  some  time  fade,  she  might  want  something 
that  would  endure  in  the  air  of  eternity.  Her  musings 
troubled  Eleanor.  As  Black  Maggie  did  not  wait  upon 
her,  these  days,  she  ordered  up  her  own  little  pony,  and 
went  off  upon  long  rides  by  herself.  It  soothed  her  to 
be  alone.  She  let  no  servant  attend  her ;  she  took  the 
comfort  of  good  stirring  gallops  all  over  the  moor ;  and 
then  when  she  and  the  pony  were  both  tired  she  let  him 
walk  and  her  thoughts  take  up  their  train.  But  it  did 
not  do  her  any  good.  Eleanor  grew  only  more  uneasy 
from  day  to  day.  The  more  she  thought,  the  deeper 
her  thoughts  went ;  and  still  the  contrast  of  purity  and 
high  Christian  hope  rose  up  to  shame  her  own  heart  and 
life.  Eleanor  felt  her  danger  as  a  sinner ;  her  exposure 
as  guilty  ;  and  the  insufficiency  of  all  she  had  or  hoped 
for,  to  meet  future  and  coming  contingencies.  So  far 
she  got ;  there  she  stopped ;  except  that  her  sense  of 
these  things  grew  more  keen  and  deep  day  by  day  ;  it 
did  not  fade  out.  Friends  she  had  none  to  help  her. 
She  wanted  to  see  Dr.  Cairnes  and  attack  him  in  private 
and  bring  him  to  a  point  on  the  subjects  which  agitated 
her ;  but  she  could  not.  Dr.  Cairnes  too  was  absent 
from  Wiglands  at  this  time  ;  and  Eleanor  had  to  think 
and  wait  all  by  herself.  She  had  her  Bible,  it  is  true ; 
but  she  did  not  know  how  to  consult  it.  She  took  care 
not  to  go  near  Mr.  Rhys  again  ;  though  she  was  sorry 
to  hear  through  Julia  that  he  was  not  mending.  She 
wished  herself  a  little  girl,  to  have  Julia's  liberty  ;  but 
she  must  do  without  it.  And  what  would  Mr.  Carlisle 
say  to  her  thoughts  ?  She  must  not  ask  him.  He  could 


AT     THE     COTTAGE.  09 

do  nothing  with  them.     She  half  feared,  half  wished  for 
his  influence  to  overthrow  them. 

He  came ;  but  Eleanor  did  not  find  that  he  could 
remove  the  trouble,  the  existence  of  which  he  did  not 
suspect.  His  presence  did  not  remove  it.  In  all  her 
renewed  engagements  and  gayeties,  there  remained  a 
secret  core  of  discomfort  in  her  heart,  whatever  she 
might  be  about. 

They  were  taking  tea  one  evening,  half  in  and  half  out 
of  the  open  window,  when  Julia  came  up. 

."  Mr.  Carlisle,"  said  she,  "  I  am  going  to  pay  you  my 
forfeit."  He  had  caught  her  in  some  game  of  forfeits 
the  day  before.  "  I  am  going  to  give  you  something 
you  will  like  very  much." 

"  What  can  it  be,  Julia  ?" 

"  You  don't  believe  me.  Now  you  do  not  deserve  to 
have  it.  I  am  going  to  give  you  something  Eleanor 
said." 

Eleanor's  hand  was  on  her  lips  immediately  and  her 
voice  forbade  the  promised  forfeit ;  but  there  were  two 
words  to  that  bargain.  Mr.  Carlisle  captured  the  hand 
and  gave  a  counter  order. 

"  Now  you  don't  believe  me,  but  you  believe  Eleanor," 
said  the  lawless  child.  "  She  said, — she  said  it  when 
you  went  away, — that  she  had  not  thought  of  anything 
disagreeable  in  a  long  while  !" 

Mr.  Carlisle  looked  delighted,  as  well  he  might. 
Eleanor's  temples  flushed  a  painful  scarlet. 

"  Dear  me,  how  interesting  these  goings  .away  and 
comings  home  are,  I  suppose  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Broadus, 
coming  up  to  the  group.  "I  see!  there  is  no  need  to 
say  anything.  Mr.  Carlisle,  we  are  all  rejoiced  to  see  you 
back  at  Wiglands.  Or  at  the  Lodge — for  you  do  not 
honour  Wiglands  much,  except  when  I  see  you  riding 
through  it  on  that  beautiful  brown  horse  of  yours.  The 
black  and  the  brown ;  I  never  saw  such  a  paif.  And 


100  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

you  do  ride !  I  should  think  you  would  be  afraid  that 
creature  would  lose  a  more  precious  head  than  its  own." 

"  I  take  better  care  than  that,  Miss  Broadus." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  do  ;  though  for  my  part  I  can 
not  see  how  a  person  on  one  horse  can  take  care  of  a 
person  on  another  horse  ;  it  is  something  I  do  not  under 
stand.  I  never  did  ride  myself;  I  suppose  that  is  the 
reason.  Mr.  Carlisle,  what  do  you  say  to  this  lady  rid 
ing  all  alone  by  herself — without  any  one  to  take  care  of 
her  ?" 

Mr.  Carlisle's  eyes  rather  opened  at  this  question, ,  as 
if  he  did  not  fully  take  in  the  idea. 

"  She  does  it — you  should  see  her  going  by  as  I  did — 
as  straight  as  a  grenadier,  and  her  pony  on  such'a  jump ! 
I  thought  to  myself,  Mr.  Carlisle  is  in  London,  sure 
enough.  But  it  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see.  My  dear, 
how  sorry  we  are  to  miss  some  one  else  from  our  circle, 
and  he  did  honour  us  at  Wiglands — my  sister  and  me. 
How  sorry  I  am  poor  Mr.  Rhys  is  so  ill.  Have  you 
heard  from  him  to-day,  Eleanor .?" 

"  You  should  ask  Julia,  Miss  Broadus.  Is  he  much 
more  ill  than  he  was  ?  Julia  hears  of  him  every  day, 
I  believe." 

"  Ah,  the  children  all  love  him.  I  see  Julia  and 
Alfred  going  by  very  often  ;  and  the  other  boys  come  to 
see  him  constantly,  I  believe.  And  my  dear  Eleanor, 
how  kind  it  was  of  you  to  go  yourself  with  something 
for  him !  I  saw  you  and  Julia  go  past  with  your  basket — 
don't  you  remember  ? — that  day  before  the  rain  ;  and  I 
said  to  myself,  no,  I  said  to  Juliana,  some  very  compli 
mentary  things  about  you.  Benevolence  has  flourished  in 
your  absence,  Mr.  Carlisle.  Here  was  this  lady,  taking 
jelly  with  her  own  hands  to  a  sick  man.  Now  I  call 
that  beautiful." 

Mr.  Carlisle  preferred  to  make  his  own  compliments  ; 
for  he  "Bid  not  echo  those  of  the  talkative  lady. 


A  i     THE     COTTAGE.  101 

"But  I  am  afraid  he  is  very  ill,  my  dear,"  Miss 
Broadus  went  on,  turning  to  Eleanor  again.  "  He 
looked  dreadfully  when  I  saw-  him  ;  and  he  is  so  feeble, 
I  think  there  is  very  little  hope  of  his  life  left.  I  think 
he  has  just  worked  himself  to  death.  But  I  do  not  be 
lieve,  Eleanor,  he  is  any  more  afraid  of  death,  than  I  am 
of  going  to  sleep.  I  don't  believe  he  is  so  much." 

Miss  Broadus  was  called  off;  Mr.  Carlisle  had  left  the 
window ;  Eleanor  sat  sadly  thinking.  The  last  words 
had  struck  a  deeper  note  than  all  the  vexations  of  Miss 
Broadus's  previous  talk.  "  No  more  afraid  of  death 
than  of  going  to  .sleep."  Ay  !  for  his  head  was  covered 
from  danger.  Eleanor  knew  it — saw  it — felt  it ;  and  felt 
it  to  be  blessed.  Oh  how  should  she  make  that  same 
covering  her  own  ?  There  was  an  engagement  to  spend 
the  next  afternoon  at  the  Priory — the  whole  family.  Dr. 
Cairnes  would  most  probably  be  there  to  meet  them. 
Perhaps  she  might  catch  or  make  an  opportunity  of  speak 
ing  to  him  in  private  and  asking  him  what  she  wanted  to 
know.  Not  very  likely,  but  she  would  try.  Dr.  Cairnes 
was  her  pastor ;  it  ought  to  be  in  his  power  to  resolve  her 
difficulties  ;  it  must  ,be.  At  any  rate,  Eleanor  would 
apply  to  him  and  see.  She  had  no  one  else  to  apply  to. 
Unless  Mr.  Rhys  would  get  well.  Eleanor  wished  that 
might  be.  He  could  help  her,  she  knew,  without  a 
peradventure. 

Mr.  Carlisle  appeared  again,  and  the  musings  were 
banished.  He  took  her  hand  and  put  it  upon  his  arm 
and  drew  her  out  into  the  lawn.  The  action  was  caress 
ingly  done  ;  nevertheless  Eleanor  felt  that  an  inquiry  in 
to  her  behaviour  would  surely  be  the  next  thing.  So 
half  shrinking  and  half  rebellious,  -she  suffered  herself  to 
be  led  on  into  the  winding  walks  of  the  shrubbery.  The 
evening  was  delicious  ;  nothing  could  •  be  more  natural 
or  pleasant  than  sauntering  there. 

"  I  am  going  to  have  Julia  at  the  Priory  to-morrow, 


102  THK     OLD      HELMET. 

as  a  reward  for  her  good  gift  to  me,"  was  Mr.  Carlisle's 
opening  remark. 

"  I  am  sure  she  does  not  deserve  it,"  said  Eleanor 
very  sincerely. 

"  What  do  you  deserve  ?" 

"  Nothing — in  the  way  of  rewards." 

Mr.  Carlisle  did  not  think  so,  or  else  regarded  the 
matter  in  the  light  of  a  reward  to  himself. 

"  Have  you  been  good  since  I  have  been  away  ?" 

"  No  !"  said  Eleanor  bluntly. 

"  Do  you  always  speak  truth  after  this  fashion  ?" 

"  I  speak  it  as  you  will  find  it,  Mr.  Carlisle." 

The  questions  were  put  between  caresses  ;  but  in  all 
his  manner  nevertheless,  in  kisses  and  questions  alike, 
there  was  that  indefinable  air  of  calm  possession  and 
power,  before  which  Eleanor  always  felt  unable  to  offer 
any  resistance.  He  made  her  now  change  "  Mr.  Carlisle" 
for  a  more  familiar  name,  before  he  would  go  on. 
Eleanor  felt  as  a  colt  may  be  supposed  to  feel,  which  is 
getting  a  skilful  "  breaking  in ;"  yielding  obedience  at 
every  step,  and  at  every  step  secretly  wishing  to  refuse 
obedience,  to  refuse  which  is  becoming  more  and  more 
impossible. 

"  Haven't  you  been  a  little  too  good  to  somebody  else, 
while  I  have  been  away  ?" 

"  No !"  said  Eleanor.     "  I  never  am." 

"  Darling,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  honour  any  one  so  far 
as  that  woman  reports  you  to  have  done." 

"  That  ?"  said  Eleanor.  "  That  was  the  merest  act 
of  common  kindness — Julia  wanted  some  one  to  go  with 
her  to  take  some  things  to  a  sick  man  ;  and  I  wanted  a 
walk,  and  I  went."  • 

"  You  were  too  kind.  I  must  unlearn  you  a  little  of 
your  kindness.  You  are  mine,  now,  darling ;  and  I 
want  all  of  you  for  myself." 


AT     THE     COTTAGE.  103 

"  But  the  better  I  am,"  said  Eleanor,  "  I  am  sure  the 
more  there  is  to  have." 

"  Be  good  for  me"  said  he  kissing  her, — "  and  in  my 
way.  I  will  dispense  with  other  goodness.  I  am  in  no 
danger  of  not  having  enough  in  you." 

Eleanor  walked  back  to  the  house,  feeling  as  if  an 
additional  barrier  were  somehow  placed  bet  ween  her  and 
the  light  her  mind  wanted  and  the  relief  her  heart 
sought  after. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

44  Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 
Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free ; 
Not  a  lord  in  all  the  county 
Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he." 

LADY  RYTHDALE  abhorred  dinner-parties,  in  general 
and  in  particular.  She  dined  early  herself,  and  begged 
that  the  family  from  Ivy  Lodge  would  come  to  tea.  It 
was  the  first  occasion  of  the  kind ;  and  the  first  time 
they  had  ever  been  there,  otherwise  than  as  strangers 
visiting  the  grounds.  Lady  Rythdale  was  infirm  and 
unwell,  and  never  saw  her  country  neighbours  or  inter 
changed  civilities  with  them.  Of  course  this  was  laid  to 
something  more  than  infirmity,  by  the  surrounding 
gentry  who  were  less  in  consequence  than  herself;  but 
however  it  were,  few  of  them  ever  saw  the  inside  of  the 
Priory  House  for  anything  but  a  ceremonious  morning 
visit.  Now  the  family  at  the  Lodge  were  to  go  on  a 
different  footing.  It  was  a  great  time,  of  curiosity,  plea 
sure,  and  pride. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  wear  this  evening,  Eleanor  ?" 
her  mother  asked. 

"  I  suppose,  my  habit,  mamma." 

"  Your  habit !" 

"  I  cannot  very  well  ride  in  anything  else." 

"  Are  you  going  to  ride  ?" 

"  So  it  is  arranged,  ma'am.  It  will  be  infinitely  less 
tiresome  than  going  in  any  other  way." 

"  Tiresome !"  echoed  Mrs.  Powle.  "  But  what  will 
Lady  Rythdale  say  to  you  in  a  riding-habit."  , 


AT     THK     PRIOBT.  105 

"  Mamma",  I  have  very  little  notion  what  she  would 
say  to  me  in  anything." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  you  must  do,  Eleanor.  You 
must  change  your  dress  after  you  get  there." 

"  No,  mamma — I  cannot.  Mr.  Carlisle  has  arranged 
to  have  me  go  in  a  riding-habit.  It  is  his  responsibility 
I  will  not  have  any  fuss  of  changing,  nor  pay  anybody 
so  much  of  a  compliment." 

"  It  will  not  be  liked,  Eleanor." 

"  It  will  follow  my  fate,  mamma,  whatever  that  is." 

"  You  are  a  wilful  girl.  You  are  fallen  into  just  the 
right  hands.  You  will  be  managed  now,  for  once." 

"  Mamma,"  said  Eleanor  colouring  all  over,  "  it  is  ex 
tremely  unwise  in  you  to  say  that ;  for  it  rouses  all  the 
fight  there  is  in  me ;  and  some  day — '' 

"  Some  day  it  will  not  break  out,"  said  Mrs.  Powle. 

"  Well,  I  should  not  like  to  fight  with  Mr.  Carlisle," 
said  Julia.  "  I  am  glad  I  am  going,  at  any  rate." 

Eleanor  bit  her  lip.  Nevertheless,  when  the  afternoon 
came  and  Mr.  Carlisle  appeared  to  summon  her,  nothing 
wras  left  of  the  morning's  irritation  but  a  little  loftiness 
of  head  and  brow.  It  was  very  becoming ;  no  more ; 
and  Mr.  Carlisle's  evident  pleasure  and  satisfaction  soon 
soothed  the  feeling  away.  The  party  in  the  carriage  had 
gone  on  before ;  the  riders  followed  the  same  route,  pass, 
ing  through  the  village  of  Wiglands,  then  a  couple  of 
miles  or  more  beyond  through  the  village  of  Rythdale. 
Further  on,  crossing  a  bridge,  they  entered  upon  the 
old  priory  grounds ;  the  grey  tower  rose  before  them, 
and  the  horses'  feet  swept  through  the  beautiful  wilder 
ness  of  ruined  art  and  flourishing  nature.  As  the  caval 
cade  wound  along,  for  the  carriage  was  just  before  them 
now,  through  the  dale  and  past  the  ruins,  and  as  it  had 
gone  in  state  through  the  village,  Eleanor  could  not  help 
a  little  throbbing  of  heart  at  the  sense  of  the  place  she 
was  holding  and  about  to  hold ;  at  the  feeling  of  the 
5* 


"106  THE      OLD      H  E  L  M  E  T  . 

relation  all  these  beauties  and  dignities  now  held  to  her. 
If  she  had  been  inclined  to  forget  it,  her  companion's 
iook  would  have  reminded  her.  She  had  no  leisure  to 
analyze  her  thoughts,  but  these  stirred  her  pulses. 
It  was  beautiful,  as  the  horses  wound  through  the  dale 
and  by  the  little  river  Ryth,  where  all  the  ground  wa> 
kept  like  a  garden.  It  was  beautiful,  as. they  left  the 
valley  and  went  up  a  slow,  gentle,  ascending  road, 
through  thick  trees,  to  the  higher  land  where  the  new 
Priory  stood.  It  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  height,  look 
ing  down  over  the  valley  and  over  the  further  plain 
where  the  village  nestled  among  its  trees.  Yes,  and  .it 
was  fine  when  the  first  sight  of  the  house  opened  upon 
her,  not  coming  now  as  a  stranger,  but  as  future  mis 
tress  ;  for  whom  every  window  and  gable  and  chimney 
had  the  mysterious  interest  of  a  future  home.  Would 
old  Lady  Rythdale  like  to  see  her  there?  Eleanor  did 
not  know ;  but  felt  easy  in  the  assurance  that  Mr.  Car 
lisle,  who  could  manage  everything,  could  manage  that 
also.  It  was  his  affair. 

The  house  shewed  well  as  they  drew  towards  it,  among 
fine  old  trees.  It  was  a  new  house  ;  that  is,  it  did  not 
date  further  back,  than  three  generations.  Like  every 
thing  else  about  the  whole  domain,  it  gave  the  idea  of 
perfect  order  and  management.  It  was  a  spacious  build 
ing,  spreading  out  amply  upon  the  ground,  not  rising  to 
a  great  height ;  and  built  in  a  simple  style  of  no  partic 
ular  name  or  pretensions ;  but  massive,  stately,  and  ele 
gant.  No  unfinished  or  half  realized  idea ;  what  had 
been  attempted  had  been  done,  and  done  well.  The 
house  was  built  on  three  sides  of  a  quadrangle.  The 
side  of  approach  by  which  the  cavalcade  had  come,  wind 
ing  up  from  the  valley,  led  them  round  past  the  front 
of  the  left  wing.  Mr.  Carlisle  made  her  draw  bridle  and 
fall  a  little  behind  the  carriage. 

"  Do  you  like  this  view  ?"  said  he. 


AT     THE     PRIOKT.  107 

"  Very  much.    I  have  never  seen  it  before." 

He  smiled  at  her,  and  again  extending  his  hand  drew 
Black  Maggie's  rein  till  he  brought  her  to  a  slow  walk. 
The  carriage  passed  on  out  of  sight.  Eleanor  would 
have  remonstrated,  but  the  view  before  her  was  lovely. 
Three  gables,  of  unequal  height,  rose  over  that  facade ; 
the  only  ornamental  part  was  in  their  fanciful  but  not 
elaborate  mouldings.  The  lower  story,  stretching  along 
the  spread  of  a  smooth  little  lawn,  was  almost  masked 
with  ivy.  It  embedded  the  large  but  perfectly  plain 
windows,  which  reached  so  near  the  ground  that  one 
might  step  out  from  them ;  their  clear  amplitude  was 
set  in  a  frame  of  massive  green.  One  angle  especially 
looked  as  if  the  room  within  must  be  a  nest  of  ver 
durous  beauty.  The  ivy  encased  all  the  doorways  or 
entrances  on  that  side  of  the  house ;  and  climbing 
higher  threatened  to  do  for  the  story  above  what  it  had 
accomplished  below  ;  but  perhaps  some  order  had  been 
taken  about  that,  for  in  the  main  its  course  had  been 
stayed  at  a  certain  stone  moulding  that  separated  the 
stories,  and  only  a  branch  here  and  there  had  been  per 
mitted  to  shew  what  more  it  would  like  to  do.  One  of 
the  upper  windows  was  partly  encased ;  while  its  lace 
curtains  gave  an  assurance  that  all  its  garnishing  had  not 
been  left  to  nature.  Eleanor  could  not  help  thinking  it 
was  a  very  lovely  looking  place  for  any  woman  to  be 
placed  in  as  her  home ;  and  her  heart  beat  a  little  high. 

"  Do  you  not  like  it  ?"  said  Mr.  Carlisle. 

"  Yes,— certainly !" 

"  What  are  you  considering  so  attentively  in  Black 
Maggie's  ears  ?" 

Eleanor  caused  Maggie  to  prick  up  the  said  ears,  by  a 
smart  touch  of  her  whip.  The  horses  started  forward 
to  overtake  the  carriage.  Perhaps  however  Mr.  Car 
lisle  was  fascinated — he  might  well  be — by  the  present 
view  he  had  of  his  charge  ;  there  was  a  blushing  shy 


108  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

grace  observable  about  her  which  it  was  pretty  to  see 
and  not  common ;  and  maybe  he  wanted  the  view  to  be 
prolonged.  He  certainly  did  not  follow  the  nearest  road, 
but  turned  off  instead  to  a  path  which  went  winding  up 
and  down  the  hill  and  through  plantations  of  wood, 
giving  Eleanor  views  also,  of  a  different  sort ;  and  so  did 
not  come  out  upon  the  front  of  the  house  till  long  after 
the  carriage  party  had  been  safely  housed.  Eleanor 
found  she  was  alone  and  was  not  to  be  sheltered  under 
her  mother's  wing  or  any  other ;  and  her  conductor's 
face  was  much  too  satisfied  to  invite  comments.  He 
swung  her  down  from  the  saddle,  allowed  her  to  re 
move  her  cap,  and  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm  walked 
her  into  the  drawing-room  and  the  presence  of  his 
mother. 

Eleanor  had  seen  Lady  Rythdale  once  before,  in  a 
stately  visit  which  had  been  made  at  the  Lodge ;  never 
except  that  one  time.  The  old  baroness  was  a  dignified 
looking  person,  and  gave  her  a  stately  reception  now  ; 
rather  stiff  and  cold,  Eleanor  thought;  or  careless  and 
cold,  rather. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  have  you  come  in  a 
riding-habit  ?  That  will  be  very  uncomfortable.  Go  to 
my  dressing-room,  and  let  Aries  change  it  for  something 
else.  She  can  fit  you.  Macintosh,  you  shew  her  the 
way." 

No  questions  were  asked.  Mr.  Carlisle  obeyed,  put 
ting  Eleanor's  hand  on  his  arm  again,  and  walked  her 
off  out  of  the  room  and  through  a  gallery  and  up  the 
stairs,  and  along  another  gallery.  He  walked  fast. 
Eleanor  felt  exceedingly  abashed  and  displeased  and  dis 
comfited  at  this  extraordinary  proceeding,  but  she  did 
not  know  how  to  resist  it.  Her  compliance  was  taken 
for  granted,  and  Mr.  Carlisle  was  laughing  at  her  dis 
comfiture,  which  was  easy  enough  to  be  seen.  Eleanor's 
cheeks  were  glowing  magnificently.  "  I  suppose  he  feels 


AT     THE     PRIOKY.  109 

he  has  me  in  his  own  dominions  now," — she  thought  • 
and  the  thought  made  her  very  rebellious.  Lady  Ryth- 
dale  too ! 

*'  Mr.  Carlisle,"  she  began,  "  there  is  really  no  occa 
sion  for  all  this.  I  am  perfectly  comfortable.  I  do  not 
wish  to  alter  my  dress." 

"  What  do  you  call  me  ?"  said  he  stopping  short. 

"  Mr.  Carlisle." 

"  Call  me  something  else." 

The  steady  bright  hazel  eyes  which  were  looking  at 
her  asserted  their  power.  In  spite  of  her  irritation  and 
vexation  she  obeyed  his  wish,  and  asked  him  somewhat 
loftily,  to  take  her  back  again  to  the  company. 

"  Against  my  mother's  commands  ?  Do  you  not  think 
they  are  binding  on  you,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  No,  I  do  not !" 

"  You  will  allow  they  are  on  me.  My  darling,"  said 
he  laughing  and  kissing  her,  "  you  must  submit  to  be 
displeased  for  your  good."  And  he  walked  on  again. 
Eleanor  was  conquered ;  she  felt  it,  and  chafed  under  it. 
Mr.  Carlisle  opened  a  door  and  walked  her  into  an  apart 
ment,  large  and  luxurious,  the  one  evidently  that  his 
mother  had  designated.  He  rang  the  bell. 

"  Aries,"  said  he,  "  find  this  lady  something  that  will 
fit  her.  She  wishes  to  change  her  dress.  Do  your 
best." 

He  Avent  out  and  left  Eleanor  in  the  hands  of  the  tire 
woman.  Eleanor  felt  utterly  out  of  countenance,  but 
powerless  ;  though  she  longed  to  defy  the  maid  and  the 
mistress  and  say,  "  I  will  wear  my  own  and  nothing 
else."  "Why  could  she  not  say  it  ?  She  did  not  like  to 
defy  the  master. 

So  Aries  had  her  way,  and  after  one  or  two  rapid 
glances  at  the  subject  of  her  cares  and  a  moment's  re 
flection  on  her  introduction  there,  she  took  her  cue. 
"  Blushes  like  that  are  not  for  nothing,"  thought  Aries 


110  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

"  and  when  Mr.  Macintosh  says  '  Do  your  best' — why,  it 
is  easy  to  see!" 

She  was  quick  and  skilful  and  silent ;  but  Eleanor  felt 
like  a  wild  creature  in  harness.  Her  riding-dress  went 
off— her  hair  received  a  touch,  ah1  it  wanted,  as  the  waiting 
maid  said ;  and  after  one  or  two  journeys  to  wardrobes, 
Mrs.  Aries  brought  out  and  proceeded  to  array  Eleanor 
in  a  robe  of  white  lawn,  verp  flowing  and  full  of  laces. 
Yet  it  was  simple  in  style,  and  Eleanor  thought  it  useless 
to  ask  for  a  change  ;  although  when  the  robing  was  com 
pleted  she  was  dressed  more  elegantly  than  she  had  ever 
been  in  her  life.  She  was  sadly  ashamed,  greatly  indig 
nant,  and  mortified  at  herself;  that  she  should  be  so 
facile  to  the  will  of  a  person  who  had  no  right  to  com 
mand  her.  But  if  she  was  dissatisfied,  Aries  was  not ; 
the  deep  colour  in  Eleanor's  cheeks  only  relieved  her 
white  drapery  to  perfection  ;  and  her  beautiful  hair  and 
faultless  figure  harmonized  with  flowing  folds  and  soft 
laces  which  can  do  so  much  for  outlines  that  are  not  soft. 
Eleanor  was  not  without  a  consciousness  of  this  ;  never 
theless,  vanity  was  not  her  foible  ;  and  her  state  of  mind 
was  anything  but  enviable  when  she  left  the  dressing, 
room  for  the  gallery.  But  Mr.  Carlisle  was  there,  to 
meet  her  and  her  mood  too ;  and  Eleanor  found  herself 
taken  in  hand  at  once.  He  had  a  way  of  mixing  affec 
tion  with  his  power  over  her,  in  such  a  way  as  to  soothe 
and  overawe  at  the  same  time  ;  and  before  they  reached 
the  drawing-room  now  Eleanor  was  caressed  and  laughed 
into  good  order ;  leaving  nevertheless  a  little  root  of 
opposition  in  her  secret  heart,  which  might  grow  fast 
upon  occasion. 

She  was  taken  into  the  drawing-room,  set  down  and 
left,  under  Lady  Rythdale's  wing.  Eleanor  felt  her 
position  much  more  conspicuous  than  agreeable.  The  old 
baroness  turned  and  surveyed  her  ;  went  on  with  the  con 
versation  pending,  then  turned  and  surveyed  her  again  ; 


AT     THE     PRIORY.  Ill 

looked  her  well  over  ;  finally  gave  Eleanor  some  worsted 
to  hold  for  her,  which  she  wound  ;  nor  would  she  accept 
any  substitute  offered  by  the  gentlemen  for  her  promised 
daughtei--in-law's  pretty  hands  and  arms.  Worse  and 
worse.  Eleanor  saw  herself  now  not  only  a  mark  for 
people's  eyes,  but  put  in  an  attitude  as  it  were  to  be 
looked  at.  She  bore  it  bravely ;  with  steady  outward 
calmness  and  grace,  though  her  cheeks  remonstrated. 
No  movement  of  Eleanor's  did  that.  She  played  worsted 
reel  with  admirable  good  sense  and  skill,  wisely  keeping 
her  own  eyes  on  the  business  in  hand,  till  it  was  finished ; 
and  Lady  Rythdale  winding  up  the  last  end  of  the  ball, 
bestowed  a  pat  of  her  hand,  half  commendation  and 
half  raillery,  upon  Eleanor's  red  cheek ;  as  if  it  had  been 
a  child's.  •  That  was  a  little  hard  to  bear ;  Eleanor  felt 
for  a  moment  as  if  she  could  have  burst  into  tears.  She 
would  have  left  her  place  if  she  had  dared  ;  but  she  was 
in  a  corner  of  a  sofa  by  Lady  Rythdale,  and  nobody 
else  near ;  and  she  felt  shy.  She  could  use  her  eyes  now 
upon  the  company. 

Lady  Rythdale  was  busied  in  conversation  with  one 
or  two  elderly  ladies,  of  stately  presence  like  herself, 
who  were,  as  Eleanor  gathered,  friends  of  long  date, 
staying  at  the  Priory.  They  did  not  invite  curiosity. 
She  saw  her  mother  with  Mrs.  Wycherly,  the  rector's 
sister,  in  another  group,  conversing  with  Dr.  Cairries 
and  a  gentleman  unknown.  Mr.  Powle  had  found  con 
geniality  in  a  second  stranger.  Mr.  Carlisle,  far  off  in  a 
window,  one  of  those  beautiful  deep  large  windows, 
was  very  much  engaged  with  some  ladies  and  gentlemen 
likewise  strange  to  Eleanor.  Nobody  was  occupied 
with  her  ;  and  from  her  sofa  corner  she  went  to  musing. 
The  room  and  its  treasures  she  had  time  to  look  at 
quietly  ;  she  had  leisure  to  notice  how  fine  it  was  in 
proportions  and  adornments,  and  what  luxurious  abun 
dance  of  everything  that  wealth  buys  and  cultivation 


112  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

takes  pleasure  in,  had  space  to  abound  without  the 
seeming  of  multiplicity.  The  house  was  as  stately  within 
as  on  the  outside.  The  magnificence  was  new  to  Eleanor, 
and  drove  her  somehow  to  musings  of  a  very  opposite 
character.  Perhaps  her  unallayed  spirit  of  opposition 
might  have  been  with  other  causes  at  the  bottom  of  this. 
However  that  were,  her  thoughts  went  off  in  a  perverse 
train  upon  the  former  baronesses  of  Rythdale ;  the 
ladies  lovely  and  stately  who  had  inhabited  this  noble 
abode.  Eleanor  would  soon  be  one  of  the  line,  moving 
in  their  place,  where  they  had  moved ;  lovely  and  admired 
in  her  turn  ;  but  their  turn  was  over.  What  when  hers 
should  be  ? — could  she  keep  this  heritage  for  ever  ?  It 
was  a  very  impertinent  thought ;  it  had  clearly  no 
business  with  either  place  or  time ;  but  there  it  was,  star 
ing  at  Eleanor  out  of  the  rich  cornices,  and  looking  in 
at  her  from  the  magnificent  plantations  seen  through  the 
window.  Eleanor  did  not  welcome  the  thought ;  it  was 
an  intruder.  The  fact  was  that  having  once  made 
entrance  in  her  mind,  the  idea  only  seized  opportunities 
to  start  up  and  assert  its  claims  to  notice.  It  was  always 
lying  in  wait  for  her  now  ;  and  on  this  occasion  held  its 
ground  with  great  perverseness.  Eleanor  glanced  again 
at  Dr.  Cairnes ;  no  hope  of  him  at  present ;  he  was 
busily  engaged  with  a  clever  gentleman,  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Carlisle's  and  an  Oxford  man,  and  with  Mr.  Carlisle  him 
self.  Eleanor  grew  impatient  of  her  thoughts  ;  she 
wondered  if  anybody  else  had  such,  in  all  that  com 
pany.  Nobody  seemed  to  notice  her  ;  and  she  meditated 
an  escape  both  from  her  sofa  corner  and  from  herself  to 
a  portfolio  near  by,  which  promised  a  resource  in  the 
shape  of  engravings ;  but  just  as  she  was  moving,  Lady 
Rythdale  laid  a  hand  upon  her  lap. 

"  Sit  still,  my  dear,"  she  said  turning  partly  towards 
her, — "  I  want  you  by  me.  I  have  a  skein  of  silk  here 
I  want  wound  for  my  work — a  skein  of  green  silk — hero 


ATTHEPKIORY.  113 

it  is  ;  it  has  tangled  itself,  I  fear  ;  will  you  prepare  it 
for  me  ?" 

Eleanor  took  the  silk,  which  was  in  pretty  thorough 
confusion,  and  began  the  task  of  unravelling  and  untie 
ing,  preparatory  to  its  being  wound.  This  time  Lady 
Rythdale  did  not  turn  away ;  she  sat  considering 
Eleanor,  on  whose  white  drapery  and  white  fingers  the 
green  silk  threads  made  a  pretty  contrast,  while  they  left 
her  helplessly  exposed  to  that  examining  gaze.  Eleanor 
felt  it  going  all  over  her  ;  taking  in  all  the  details  of  her 
dress,  figure  and  face.  She  could -not  help  the  blood 
mounting,  though  she  angrily  tried  to  prevent  it.  The 
green  silk  was  in  a  great  snarl.  Eleanor  bent  her  head 
over  her  task. 

"  My  dear,  are  you  near-sighted  ?" 

"  No,  madam !"  said  the  girl,  giving  the  old  lady  a 
moment's  view  of  the  orbs  in  question. 

"  You  have  very  good  eyes — uncommon  colour,"  said 
Lady  Rythdale.  "  Macintosh  thinks  he  will  have  a 
good  little  wife  in  you ; — is  it  true  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  ma'am,"  said  Eleanor  haughtily. 

"  I  think  it  is  true.  Look  up  here  and  let  me  see." 
And  putting  her  hand  under  Eleanor's  chin,  she  chucked 
up  her  face  as  if  she  were  something  to  be  examined  for 
purchase.  Eleanor  felt  in  no  amiable  mood  certainly, 
and  her  cheeks  were  flaming ;  nevertheless  the  old  lady 
coolly  held  her  under  consideration  and  even  with  a 
smile  on  her  lips  which  seemed  of  satisfaction.  Eleanor 
did  not  see  it,  for  her  eyes  could  not  look  up  ;  but  she 
,  felt  through  all  her  nerves  the  kiss  with  which  the 
examination  was  dismissed. 

"  I  think  it  is  true,"  the  old  baroness  repeated.  "  I 
hope  it  is  true  ;  for  my  son  would  not  be  an  easy  man 
to  live  with  on  any  other  terms,  my  dear." 

_"  I  suppose  its  truth  depends  in  a  high  degree  upon 


114  THE     OLD     UK  I,  MET. 

himself,  madam,"  said  Eleanor,  very  much  incensed. 
"  Does  your  ladj-ship  choose  to  wind  this  silk  now  ?" 

"  You  may  hold  it.  I  see  you  have  got  it  into  order. 
That  shews  you  possessed  of  the  old  qualification  of 
patience. — Your  hands  a  little  higher. — My  dear,  I 
would  not  advise  you  to  regulate  your  behaviour  by 
anything  in  other  people.  Macintosh  will  make  you  a 
kind  husband  if  you  do  not  displease  him ;  but  he  ia 
one  of  those  men  who  must  obeyed." 

Eleanor  had  no  escape  ;  she  must  sit  holding  the  silk, 
a  mark  for  Lady  Rythdale's  eyes  and  tongue.  She  sat 
drooping  a  little  with  indignation  and  shame,  when  Mr. 
Carlisle  came  up.  He  had  seen  from  a  distance  the  tint 
of  his  lady's  cheeks  and  judged  that  she  was  going 
through  some  sort  of  an  ordeal.  But  though  he  came 
to  protect,  he  stood  still  to  enjoy.  The  picture  was  so 
very  pretty.  The  mother  and  son  exchanged  glances. 

"  I  think  you  can  make  her  do,"  said  the  baroness 
contentedly. 

"  Not  as  a  permanent  winding  reel !"  exclaimed 
Eleanor  jumping  up.  "  Mr.  Carlisle,  I  am  tired  ; — have 
the  goodness  to  take  this  silk  from  my  fingers." 

And  slipping  it  over  the  gentleman's  astonished  hands, 
before  he  had  time  quite  to  know  what  she  was  about, 
Eleanor  left  the  pair  to  arrange  the  rest  of  the  business 
between  them,  and  herself  walked  off  to  one  of  the  deep 
windows.  She  was  engaged  there  immediately  by  Lord 
Rythdale,  in  civil  conversation  enough  ;  then  he  intro 
duced  other  gentlemen ;  and  it  was  not  till  after  a  se 
ries  of  talks  with  one  and  another,  that  Eleanor  had  a 
minute  to  herself.  She  was  sitting  in  the  window, 
where  an  encroaching  branch  of  ivy  at  one  side  reminded 
her  of  the  elegant  work  it  was  doing  round  the  corner. 
Eleanor  would  have  liked  to  go  through  the  house — or 
the  grounds — if  she  might  have  got  away  alone  and  in 
dulged  herself  in  a  good  musing  fit.  How  beautiful  the 


AT     THK     PRIORY.  115 

shaven  turf  looked  under  the  soft  sun's  light !  how 
stately  stood  old  oaks  and  beeches  here  and  there ! 
how  rich  the  thicker  border  of  vegetation  beyond  the 
lawn  !  What  beauty  of  order  and  keeping  everywhere. 
Nothing  had  been  attempted  here  but  what  the  resources 
of  the  proprietors  were  fully  equal  to  ;  the  impression 
was  of  ample  power  to  "So  more.  While  musing, 
Eleanor's  attention  was  attracted  by  Mr.  Carlisle,  who 
had  stepped  out  upon  the  lawn  with  one  or  two  of  his 
guests,  and  she  looked  at  the  place  and  its  master  to 
gether.  He  suited  it  very  well.  He  was  an  undeniably 
handsome  man  ;  his  bearing  graceful  and  good.  Eleanor 
liked  Mr.  Carlisle,  not  the  less  perhaps  that  she  feared 
him  a  little.  She  only  felt  a  little  wilful  rebellion  against 
the  way  in  which  she  had  come  to  occupy  her  present 
position.  If  but  she  might  have  been  permitted  to  take 
her  own  time,  and  say  yea  for  herself,  without  having  it 
said  for  her,  she  would  have  been  content.  As  it  was» 
Eleanor  was  not  very  discontented.  Her  heart  swelled 
with  a  secret  satisfaction  and  some  pride,  as  without 
seeing  her  the  group  passed  the  window  and  she  was 
left  with  the  sunlit  lawn  and  beautiful  old  trees  again. 
Close  upon  that  feeling  of  pride  came  another  thought. 
What  when  this  earthly  coronet  should  fade  ? — 

"  Dr.  Cairnes,"  said  Eleanor  seizing  an  opportunity, — 
"  come  here  and  sit  down  by  me.  I  have  not  seen  you 
in  a  great  while." 

"  You  have  not  missed  me,  my  dear  lady,"  said  the 
doctor  blandly. 

"  Yes  I  have,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  something." 

"  How  soon  I  am  to  make  you  happy  ?  or  help  you  to 
make  somebody  else  happy  ?  Well  I  shall  be  at  your 
service  any  time  about  Christmas." 

"  No,  no !"  said  Eleanor  colouring,  "  I  want  something 
very  different.  I  am  talking  seriously,  Dr.  Cairnes.  I 


116  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

want  you  to  tell  me  something.  I  want  to  know  how  I 
may  be  happy — for  I  am  unhappy  now." 

"  You  unhappy !"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  must  talk  to 
my  friend  Mr.  Carlisle  about  that.  We  must  call  him  in 
for  counsel.  What  would  he  say,  to  your  being  un 
happy?  hey?" 

He  was  there  to  speak  for'himself ;  there  with  a  slight 
cloud  on  his  brow  too,  Eleanor  thought.  He  had  come 
from  within  the  room ;  she  thought  he  was  safe  away  in 
the  grounds  with  his  guests. 

"  Shall  I  break  up  this  interesting  conversation  ?" 
said  he. 

"  It  was  growing  very  interesting,"  said  the  doctor  ; 
"  for  this  lady  was  just  acknowledging  to  me  that  she 
is  not  happy.  I  give  her  over  to  you — this  is  a  case 
beyond  my  knowledge  and  resources.  Only,  when  I  can 
do  anything,  I  shall  be  most  gratified  at  being  called 
upon." 

The  doctor  rose  up,  shook  himself,  and  left  the  field 
to  Mr.  Carlisle.  Eleanor  felt  vexed  beyond  description, 
and  very  little  inclined  to  call  again  upon  Dr.  Cairnes  for 
anything  whatever  in  any  line  of  assistance.  Her  face 
burned.  Mr.  Carlisle  took  no  notice  ;  only  laid  his  hand 
upon  hers  and  said  "  Come !" — and  walked  her  out  of  the 
room  and  on  the  lawn,  and  sauntered  with  her  down  to 
some  of  the  thickly  planted  shrubbery  beyond  the  house. 
There  went  round  about  upon  the  soft  turf,  calling  Elea 
nor's  attention  to  this  or  that  shrub  or  tree,  and  finding 
her  very  pleasant  amusement ;  till  the  question  in  her 
mind,  of  what  was  coming  now,  had  almost  faded  away. 
The  lights  and  shadows  stretched  in  long  lines  between 
the  trees,  and  lay  witchingly  over  the  lawn.  An  open 
ing  in  the  plantations  brought  a  fair  view  of  it,  and  of 
the  left  wing  of  the  house  which  Eleanor  had  admired, 
dark  and  rich  in  its  mantle  of  ivy,  while  the  light 


AT     THE      PRIOKV.  117 

gleamed  on  the  edges  of  the  ornamented  gables  above. 
It  was  a  beautiful  view.  Mr.  Carlisle  paused. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  house  ?"  said  he. 

"  I  think  I  prefer  the  ruined  old  priory  down  yonder," 
said  Eleanor. 

"  Do  you  still  feel  your  attraction  for  a  monastic  life  ?" 

"  Yes  !"  said  Eleanor  colouring, — "  I  think  they  must 
have  had  peaceable  old  lives  there,  with  nothing  to 
trouble  them.  And  they  could  plant  gardens  as  well  as 
you  can." 

"  As  the  old  ruins  are  rather  uninhabitable,  what  do 
you  think  of  entering  a  modern  Priory  ?" 

It  pleased  him  to  see  the  deep  rich  glow  on  Eleanor's 
cheek,  and  the  droop  of  her  saucy  eyelids.  No  wonder 
it  pleased  him ;  it  was  a  pretty  thing  to  see ;  and  he  en 
joyed  it. 

"  You  shall  be  Lady  Abbess,"  he  went  on  presently, 
"  and  make  your  own  rules,  I  only  stipulate  that  there 
shall  be  no  Father  Confessor  except  myself." 

"I  doubt  your  qualifications  for  that  office,"  said 
Eleanor. 

"  Suppose  you  try  me.  What  were  you  confessing  to 
Dr.  Cairnes  just  now  in  the  window  ?" 

"  Nonsense,  Robert !"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  was  talking 
of  something  you  would  not  understand." 

"  You  underrate  me,"  said  be  coolly.  "  My  powers 
of  understanding  are  equal  to  the  old  gentleman's,  unless 
I  am  mistaken  in  myself.  What  are  you  unhappy  about, 
darling  ?" 

"Nothing  that  you  could  make  anything  of,"  said 
Eleanor.  "  I  was  talking  to  Dr.  Cairnes  in  a  language 
that  you  do  not  understand.  Do  let  it  alone !" 

"  Did  he  report  you  truly,  to  have  used  the  English 
word  '  unhappy'  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor ;  "  but  Mr.  Carlisle,  you  do  not 
know  what  you  are  talking  about." 


118  X  U  E      O  I,  I)     H  K  L  M  E  T  . 

"  I  am  coming  to  it.  Darling,  do  you  think  you  would 
be  unhappy  at  the  Priory  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  that- — "  said  Eleanor,  confused. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  make  you  happy  there  ? — • 
Speak,  Eleanor — speak. 

"  Yes — if  I  could  be  happy  anywhere." 

"  What  makes  you  unhappy  ?  My  wife  must  not 
hide  her  heart  from  me." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  not  that  yet,"  said  Eleanor  with  spirit, 
rousing  up  to  assert  herself. 

He  laughed  and  kissed  her.  "  How  long  first,  Elea 
nor  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.     Very  long." 

"  What  is  very  long  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.     A  year  or  two  at  least." 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  will  agree  to  that  ?" 

Eleanor  knew  he  would  not ;  and  further  saw  a  quiet 
purpose  in  his  face.  She  was  sure  he  had  fixed  upon  the 
time,  if  not  the  day.  She  felt  those  cobweb  bands  all 
around  her.  Here  she  was,  almost  in  bridal  attire,  at 
his  side  already.  She  made  no  answer. 

"  Divide  by  twelve,  and  get  a  quotient,  Eleanor." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I "  mean  to  have  a  merry  Christmas — by  your 
leave." 

Christmas  !  that  was  what  the  doctor  had  said. 
Was  it  so  far  without  her  leave  ?  Eleanor  felt  angry. 
That  did  not  hinder  her  feeling  frightened. 

"  You  cannot  have  it  in  the  way  you  propose,  Mr. 
Carlisle.  I  am  not  ready  for  that." 

"  You  will  be,"  he  said  coolly.  "  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
go  up  to  London  after  Christmas ;  then  I  mean  to  instal 
you  in  Bei'keley  Square ;  and  in  the  summer  you  shall  go 
to  Switzerland  with  me.  Now  tell  me,  my  darling,  what 
you  are  unhappy  about  ?'' 

Eleanor  felt  tongue-tied  and  powerless.      The  last 


AT     THK     PRIORY.  119 

words  had  been  said  very  affectionately,  and  as  she  was 
silent  they  were  repeated. 

"  It  is  nothing  you  would  understand." 

"  Try  me." 

"  It  is  nothing  that  would  interest  you  at  all." 

"  Not  interest  me !"  said  he ;  and  if  his  manner  had 
been  self-willed,  it  was  also  now  as  tender  and  gentle 
as  it  was  possible  to  be.  He  folded  Eleanor  in  his  arms 
caressingly  and  waited  for  her  words.  "  Not  interest 
me!  Do  you  know  that  from  your  riding-cap  to  the 
very  gloves  you  pull  on  and  off,  there  is  nothing  that 
touches  you  that  does  not  interest  me.  And  now  I  hear 
my  wife — she  is  almost  that,  Eleanor, — tell  Dr.  Cairnes 
that  she  is  not  happy.  I  must  know  why." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  think  about  it,  Mr.  Carlisle ! 
It  is  nothing  to  care  about  at  all.  I  was  speaking  to  Dr. 
Cairnes  as  a  clergyman." 

"  You  shall  not  call  me  Mr.  Carlisle.  Say  that  over 
again,  Eleanor." 

"  It  is  nothing  to  think  twice  about,  Mr.  Macintosh." 

"  You  were  speaking  to  Dr.  Cairnes  as  a  clergyman  ?" 
he  said  laughing.  "  How  was  that  ?  I  can  think  but 
of  one  way  in  which  Dr.  Cairnes'  profession  concerns 
you  and  me — was  it  on  that  subject,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  No,  no.  It  was  only — I  was  only  going  to  ask  him 
a  religious  question  that  interested  me." 

"  A  religious  question  !  Was  it  that  which  made  you 
unhappy  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  have  it.  I  knew  you  would  not 
like  it." 

"  I  don't  like  it ;  and  I  will  not  have  it,"  said  he. 
You,  my  little  Eleanor,  getting  up  a  religious  uneasi 
ness  !  that  will  never  do.  You,  who  are  as  sound  as  a 
nut,  and  as  sweet  as  a  Cape  jessamine !  I  shall  prove 
your  best  counsellor.  You  have  not  had  rides  enough 
over  the  moor  lately.  We  will  have  an  extra  gallop  to- 


120  THE     OLD     HELMKT. 

morrow ; — and  after  Christmas  I  will  take  care  of  you. 
What  were  you  uneasy  about  ?" 

"  Don't  Robert !"  said  Eleanor, — "  do  not  ask  me  any 
more  about  it.  I  do  not  want  you  to  laugh  at  me." 

"  Laugh  at  you  !"  he  said.  "  I  should  like  to  see  any 
body  else  do  that !  but  I  will,  as  much  as  I  like.  Do 
you  know  you  are  a  darling?  and  just  as  lovely  in  mind 
as  you  are  in  person.  Do  not  you  have  any  questions 
with  the  old  priest ;  I  do  not  like  it ;  come  to  me  with 
your  difficulties,  and  I  will  manage  them  for  you.  Was 
that  all,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  we  are  all  right — or  we  soon  shall  be." 

They  strolled  a  little  longer  over  the  soft  tui'f,  in  the 
soft  light. 

"  We  are  not  quite  all  right,"  said  Eleanor ;  "  for  you 
think  I  will  do — what  I  will  not." 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"  I  have  not  agreed  to  your  arrangements  " 

"  You  will." 

"  Do  not  think  it,  Macintosh.     I  will  not." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  smiling,  not  in  the  least  dis 
concerted.  She  had  spoken  no  otherwise  than  gently, 
and  with  more  secret  effort  than  she  would  have  liked 
him  to  know. 

"  You  shall  say  that  for  half  the  time  between  now 
and  Christmas,"  he  said  ;  "  and  after  that  you  will  adopt 
another  form  of  expression." 

"  If  I  say  it  at  all,  I  shall  hold  to  it,  Macintosh." 

"  Then  do  not  say  it  at  all,  my  little  Eleanor,"  said  he 
lightly  ;  "  I  shall  make  you  give  it  up.  I  think  I  will 
make  you  give  it  up  now." 

"  You  are  not  generous,  Robert." 

"  No — I  suppose  I  am  not,"  he  said  contentedly.  "  I 
am  forced  to  go  to  London  after  Christmas,  and  I  can- 


AT     THE     PRIORY.  121 

not  go  without  you.  Do  you  not  love  me  well  enough 
to  give  me  that,  Eleanor  ?" 

Eleanor  was  silent.  She  was  not  willing  to  say  no ; 
she  could  not  with  truth  say  yes.  Mr.  Carlisle  bent 
down  to  look  into  her  face. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"  Nothing — "  said  Eleanor  avoiding  his  eye. 

"  Kiss  me,  Nellie,  and  promise  that  you  will  be  my 
good  little  wife  at  Christmas." 

His  mother's  very  phrase.  Eleanor  rebelled  secretly, 
but  felt  powerless  under  those  commanding  eyes.  Per 
haps  he  was  aware  of  her  latent  obstinacy  ;  if  he  was, 
he  also  knew  himself  able  to  master  it ;  for  the  eyes 
were  sparkling  Avith  pleasure  as  well  as  with  wilfulness. 
The  occasion  was  not  sufficient  to  justify  a  contest  with 
Mr.  Carlisle  ;  Eleanor  was  not  ready  to  brave  one  ;  she 
hesitated  long  enough^  to  shew  her  rebellion,  and  then 
yielded,  ingloriously  she  felt,  though  on  the  whole  wisely. 
She  met  her  punishment.  The  offered  permission  was 
not  only  taken  ;  she  was  laughed  at  and  rejoiced  over 
triumphantly,  to  Mr.  Carlisle's  content.  Eleanor  bore  it 
as  well  at  she  could  ;  wishing  that  she  had  not  tried  to 
assert  herself  in  such  vain  fashion,  and  feeling  her  dis 
comfiture  complete. 

It  was  more  than  time  to  return  to  the  company. 
Eleanor  knew  what  a  mark  she  was  for  people's  eyes, 
and  would  gladly  have  screened  herself  behind  somebody 
in  a  corner  ;  but  Mr.  Carlisle  kept  full  possession  of  her. 
He  walked  her  into  the  room,  and  gently  retained  her 
hand  in  its  place  while  he  went  from  one  to  another, 
obliging  her  to  stand  and  talk  or  to  be  talked  to  with 
him  through  the  whole  company.  Eleanor  winced , 
nevertheless  bore  herself  well  and  a  little  proudly  until 
the  evening  was  over. 

The  weather  had  changed,  and  the  ride  home  was  be 
gun  under  a  cloudy  sky.  It  grew  very  dark  as  they 

6 


122  TIIE      OLD     II  EL  MET. 

went  on  ;  impossible  in  many  places  to  see  the  path. 
Mr.  Carlisle  was  riding  with  her  and  the  roads  were  well 
known  to  him  and  to  the  horses,  and  Eleanor  did  not 
mind  it.  She  went  on  gayly  with  him,  rather  delighting 
in  the. novelty  and  adventure  ;  till  she  heard  a  muttering 
of  thunder.  It  was  the  only  thing  Eleanor's  nerves 
dreaded.  Her  spirits  were  checked  ;  she  became  silent 
and  quiet,  and  hardly  heard  enough  to  respond  to  her 
companion's  talk.  She  was  looking  incessantly  for  that 
which  came  at  last  as  they  were  nearing  the  old  ruins 
in  the  valley  ;  a  flash  of  lightning.  It  lit  up  the  beauti 
ful  tower  with  its  clinging  ivy,  revealed  for  an  instant 
some  bits  of  wall  and  the  thick  clustering  trees  ;  then 
left  a  blank  darkness.  The  same  illumination  had  entered 
the  hidden  places  of  memory,  and  startled  into  vivid  life 
the  scenes  and  the  thoughts  of  a  few  months  ago.  All 
Eleanor's  latent  uneasiness  was  aroused.  Her  attention 
was  absorbed  noAV,  from  this  point  until  they  got  home, 
in  watching  for  flashes  of  lightning.  They  came  fre 
quently,  but  the  storm  was  after  all  a  slight  one.  The 
lightning  lit  up  the  way  beautifully  for  the  other  mem 
bers  of  the  party.  To  Eleanor  it  revealed  something 
more. 

Mr.  Carlisle's  leave-taking  at  the  door  bespoke  him 
well  satisfied  with  the  results  of  the  evening.  Eleanor 
shunned  the  questions  and  remarks  of  her  family  and 
went  to  her  own  room.  There  she  sat  down,  in  her  rid 
ing  habit  and  with  her  head  in  her  hands.  What  use 
was  it  for  her  to  be  baroness  of  Rythdale,  to  be  mistress 
of  the  Priory,  to  be  Mr.  Carlisle's  petted  and  favoured 
wife,  while  there  was  no  shield  between  her  head  and 
the  stroke  that  any  day  and  any  moment  might  bring  ? 
And  what  after  all  availed  an  earthly  coronet,  ever  so 
bright,  which  had  nothing  to  replace  it  when  its  fad 
ing  time  should  come  ?  Eleanor  wanted  something 
more. 


CHAPTEE    VII. 

"  It  Is  the  little  rift  within  the  Inte, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute." 

IT  was  .impossible  for  Eleanor  to  shake  off  the  feeling, 
It  rose  fresh  with  her  the  next  day,  and  neither  her  own 
nor  Mr.  Carlisle's  efforts  could  dispose  of  it.  To  do 
Eleanor  justice,  she  did  not  herself  wish  to  lose  it,  unless 
by  the  supply  of  her  want ;  while  she  took  special  care 
to  hide  her  trouble  from  Mr.  Carlisle.  They  took  great 
gallops  on  the  moor,  and  long  rides  all  about  the  coun 
try  ;  the  rides  were  delightful ;  the  talks  were  gay  ;  but 
in  them  all,  or  at  the  end  of  them  certainly,  Eleanor's 
secret  cry  was  for  some  shelter  for  her  unprotected  head. 
The  thought  would  come  up  in  every  possible  connexion, 
till  it  haunted  her.  'Not  her  approaching  marriage,  nor 
the  preparations  which  were  even  beginning  for  it,  nor 
her  involuntary  subjection  to  all  Mr.  Carlisle's  pleasure, 
so  much  dwelt  with  Eleanor  now  as  the  question, — how 
she  should  meet  the  storm  which  must  break  upon  her 
some  day ;  or  rather  the  sense  that  she  could  not  meet 
it.  The  fairest  and  sweetest  scene,  or  condition  of 
things,  seemed  but  to  bring  up  this  thought  more  vividly 
by  very  force  of  contrast. 

Eleanor  hid  the  whole  within  her  own  heart,  and  the 
fire  burned  there  all  the  more.  Not  a  sign  of  it  must 
Mr.  Carlisle  see ;  and  as  for  Dr.  Cairnes,  Eleanor  could 
never  get  a  chance  for  a  safe  talk  with  him.  Somebody 
was  always  near,  or  might  be  near.  The  very  effort  to 
hide  her  thoughts  grew  sometimes  irksome;  and  tho 


124  THE     OLD     HKI.  MET. 

whirl  of  engagements  and  occupations  in  which  she  lived 
gave  her  a  stifled  feeling.  She  could  not  even  indulge 
herself  in  solitaiy  consideration  of  that  which  there  was 
nobody  to  help  her  consider. 

She  hailed  one  day  the  announcement  that  Mr.  Carlisle 
must  let  the  next  day  go  by  without  riding  or  seeing 
her.  He  would  be  kept  away  at  a  town  some  miles  oft", 
on  county  business.  Mr.  Carlisle  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  county  politics  and  country  business  generally ; 
made  himself  both  important  and  popular,  and  lost  no 
thread  of  influence  he  had  once  gathered  into  .his  hand. 
So  Brompton  would  have  him  all  the  next  day,  and  Elea 
nor  would  have  her  time  to  herself. 

That  she  might  secure  full  possession  of  it,  she  ordered 
her  pony  and  went  out  alone  after  luncheon.  She  could 
not-get  free  earlier.  Now  she  took  no  servant  to  follow 
her,  and  started  off  alone  to  the  moors.  It  was  a  deli 
cious  autumn  day,  mild  and  still  and  mellow.  Eleanor 
got  out  of  sight  or  hearing  of  human  habitations  ;  then 
let  her  pony  please  himself  in  his  paces  Avhile  she  dropped 
the  reins  and  thought.  It  was  hardly  in  Eleanoi''s  nature 
to  have  bitter  thoughts ;  they  came  as  near  it  on  this 
occasion  as  they  were  apt  to  do  ;  they  were  very  dis 
satisfied  thoughts.  She  was  on  the  whole  dissatisfied 
with  everybody ;  herself  most  of  all,  it  is  true ;  but  her 
mother  and  Mr.  Carlisle  had  a  share.  She  did  not  want 
to  be  married  at  Christmas  ;  she  did  not  even  care  about 
going  to  Switzerland,  unless  by  her  own  good  leave 
asked  and  obtained  ;  she  was  not  willing  to  be  managed 
as  a  child ;  yet  Eleanor  was  conscious  that  she  was  no 
better  in  Mr.  Carlisle's  hands.  "  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a 
master  he  will  make,"  she  thought,  "  when  he  has  me 
entirely  in  his  power  ?  I  have  no  sort  of  liberty  now." 
It  humbled  her  ;  it  was  her  own  fault ;  yet  Eleanor  liked 
Mr.  Carlisle,  and  thought  that  she  loved  him.  She  was 
young  yet  and  very  inexperienced.  She  also  liked  all 


W  I  T  H     T  II  E     F  E  K  N  S .  125 

the  splendour  of  the  position  he  gave  her.  Yet  above 
the  gratification  of  this,  through  the  dazzle  of  wealth 
and  pleasure  and  power,  Eleanor  discerned  now  a  want 
these  could  not  fill.  What  should  she  do  when  they 
failed  ?  there  was  no  provision  in  them  for  the  want  of 
them.  Eleanor  forgot  her  loss  of  independence,  and 
pondered  these  thoughts  till  they  grew  bitter  with  pain. 
By  turns  she  wished  she  had  never  seen  Mr.  Rhys,  who 
she  remembered  first  started  them ;  or  wished  she  could 
see  him  again. 

In  the  stillness  and  freedom  and  peace  of  the  wide 
moor,  Eleanor  had  fearlessly  given  herself  up  to  her 
musings,  without  thinking  or  caring  Avhich  Avay  she 
went.  The  pony,  finding  the  choice  left  to  him,  had 
naturally  enough  turned  off  into  a  track  leading  over 
some  wild  hills  where  he  had  been  bred ;  the  locality 
had  pleasant  associations  for  him.  But  it  had  none  of 
any  kind  for  Eleanor ;  and  when  she  roused  herself  to 
think  of  it,  she  found  she  was  in  a  distant  part  of  the 
moor  and  drawing  near  to  the  hills  aforesaid ;  a  bleak 
and  dreary  looking  region,  and  very  far  from  home. 
Neither  was  she  very  sure  by  which  way  she  might 
soonest  regain  a  neighbourhood  that  she  knew.  To  fol 
low  the  path  she  was  on  and  turn  off  into  the  first  track 
that  branched  in  the  right  direction,  seemed  the  best  to 
do  ;  and  she  roused  up  her  pony  to  an  energetic  little 
gallop.  It  seemed  little  after  the  long  bounds  Black 
Maggie  would  take  through  the  air ;  but  it  was  brisk 
work  for  the  pony.  Eleanor  kept  him  at  his  speed.  It 
was  luxurious,  to  be  alone ;  ride  as  she  liked,  slow  or 
fast,  and  think  as  she  liked,  even  forbidden  thoughts. 
Her  own  mistress  once  more.  Eleanor  exulted,  all  the 
more  because  she  was  a  rebel.  The  wild  moor  was 
delicious ;  the  freedom  was  delicious ;  only  she  was  far 
from  home  and  the  afternoon  was  on  the  wane.  She 
kept  the  pony  to  his  speed. 


1 26  T  H  K     OLD     II  K  L  M  K  T  . 

By  the  base  of  the  hills  near  to  which  the  road  led 
her,  stood  a  miserable  little  house.  It  needed  but  a  look 
at  the  place,  to  decide  that  the  people  who  lived  in  it 
must  be  also  miserable,  and  probably  in  more  ways  than 
one.  '  Eleanor  who  had  intended  asking  there  for  some 
news  of  her  whereabouts  and  the  roads,  changed  her 
mind  as  she  dr6w  near  and  resolved  to  pass  the  house  at 
a  gallop.  So  much  for  wise  resolves.  The  miserable 
children  who  dwelt  in  the  house  had  been  that  day  mak 
ing  a  bonfire  for  their  amusement  right  on  her  track. 
The  hot  ashes  were  still  there  ;  the  pony  set  his  feet  in 
them,  reared  high,  and  threw  his  rider,  who  had  never 
knoAvn  the  pony  do  such  a  thing  before  and  had  no 
reason  to  expect  it  of  him.  Eleanor  was  thrown  clean 
off  on  the  ground,  and  fell  stunned. 

She  picked  herself  up  after  a  few  minutes,  to  find  no 
bones  broken,  the  miserable  hut  close  by,  and  two  chil 
dren  and  an  old  crone  looking  at  her.  The  pony  had 
concluded  it  a  dangerous  neighbourhood  and  departed, 
shewing  a  clean  pair  of  heels.  Eleanor  gathered  her 
dress  in  her  hand  and  looked  at  the  people  who  were 
staring  at  her.  Such  faces  ! 

"  What  place  is  this  ?"  she  asked,  forcing  herself  to 
be  bold.  The  answer  was  utterly  unintelligible.  All 
Eleanor  could  make  out  was  the  hoarsely  or  thickly  put 
question,  "  Be  you  hurted  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you — not  at  all,  I  believe,"  she  said 
breathlessly,  for  she  had  not  got  over  the  shock  of  her 
fall.  "  How  far  am  I  from  the  village  of  Wiglands  ?" 

Again  the  words  that  were  spoken  in  reply  gave  no 
meaning  to  her  ear. 

"  Boys,  will  one  of  you  shew  me  the  nearest  way 
there  ?  I  will  give  you  something  as  soon  as  I  get  home." 

The  children  stared,  at  her  and  at  each  other ;  but 
Eleanor  was  more  comprehensible  to  them  than  they  to 
her.  The  old  woman  said  some  hoarse  words  to  the 


W  I  T  II     T  H  K     F  K  K  N  S  .  127 

children  ;  and  then  one  of  them  stepped  forth  and  said 
strangely,  "  I  'ze  go  wiz  ye." 

"  I'll  reward  him  for  it,"  said  Eleanor,  nodding  to  the 
old  grandmother  ;  and  set  off,  very  glad  to  be  walking 
away.  She  did  not  breathe  freely  till  a  good  many  yards 
of  distance  were  between  her  and  the  hut,  where  the  crone 
and  the  other  child  still  remained  watching  her.  There 
might  be  others  of  the  family  coming  home  ;  and  Elea 
nor  walked  at  a  brave  pace  until  she  had  well  left  the 
little  hut  behind,  out  of  all  fear  of  pursuit.  Then  she 
began  to  feel  that  she  was  somewhat  shattered  by  her 
fall,  and  getting  tired,  and  she  went  more  gently.  But 
it  was  a  long,  long  way  ;  the  reach  of  moor  seemed  end 
less  ;  for  it  was  a  very  different  thing  to  go  over  it  on 
Black  Maggie's  feet  from  going  over  it  on  her  own. 
Eleanor  was  exceedingly  weary,  and  still  the  brown 
common  stretched  away  on  all  sides  of  her  ;  and  the  dis 
tant  tuft  of  vegetation  which  announced  the  village  of 
Wiglands,  stood  afar  off,  and  seemed  to  be  scarcely  nearer 
after  miles  of  walking.  Before  they  reached  it  Eleanor's 
feet  were  dragging  after  one  another  in  weariest  style. 
She  could  not  possibly  go  on  to  the  Lodge  without  stop 
ping  to  rest.  How  should  she  reward  and  send  back 
her  guide?  As  she  was  thinking  of  this,  Eleanor  saw  the 
smoke  curling  up  from  a  stray  cottage  hid  among  the 
trees  ;  it  was  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage.  Her  heart  sprang 
with  a  sudden  temptation — doubted,  balanced,  and  re 
solved.  She  had  excuse  enough  ;  she  would  do  a  rebel 
lious  thing.  She  would  go  there  and  rest.  It  might 
give  her  a  chance  to  see  Mr.  Rhys  and  hear  him  talk ;  it 
might  not.  If  the  chance  came,  why  she  would  be  very 
glad  of  it.  Eleanor  had  no  money  about  her ;  she  hastily 
detached  a  gold  pencil-case  from  her  watch  chain  and 
put  it  into  the  ragged  creature's  hand  who  had  guided 
her ;  saw  him  turn  his  back,  then  went  with  a  sort  of 


128  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

stealthy  joy  to  the  front 'of  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage, 
pushed  the  door  open  softly  and  went  in. 

Nobody  was  there  ;  not  a  cat ;  it  was  all  still.  An»in- 
uer  door  stood  ajar  ;  within  there  was  a  sound  of  voices, 
low  and  pleasant.  Eleanor  supposed  Mrs.  Williams 
would  make  her  appearance  in  a  minute,  and  sank  down 
on  the  first  chair  that  oifered  ;  sank  even  her  head  in  her 
hands,  for  very  weariness  and  the  very  sense  of  rest 
and  security  gained.  The  chair  was  one  standing  by  the 
fire  and  near  the  open  inner  door  ;  the  voices  came  quite 
plainly  through ;  and  the  next  minute  let  Eleanor 
know  that  one  of  them  was  the  voice  of  her  little  sister 
Julia ;  she  heard  one  of  Julia's  joyous  utterances.  The 
other  voice  belonged  to  Mr.  Rhys.  No  sound  of  Mrs. 
Williams.  Eleanor  sat  still,  her  head  bowed  in  her 
hands,  and  listened. 

It  seemed  that  Julia  was  looking  at  something — or 
some  collection  of  things.  Eleanor  could  hear  the  slight 
rustling  of  paper  handled — then  a  pause  and  talk.  Julia 
had  a  great  deal  to  say.  Eleanor  presently  made  out 
that  they  were  looking  at  a  collection  of  plants.  She 
felt  so  tired  that  she  had  no  inclination  to  move  a  single 
muscle.  Mind  and  body  sat  still  to  listen. 

"  And  what  is  that  ?"  she  heard  Julia  say. 

"  Mountain  fern." 

"  Isn't  it  beautiful !  O  that's  as  pretty  as  a  feather." 

"  If  you  saw  them  growing,  dozens  of  them  springing 
from  the  same  root,  you  would  think  them  beautiful. 
Then  those  brown  edgings  are  black  as  jet  and  glossy." 

"  Are  those  the  thecce,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  Yes.  The  Lastraeas,  and  all  their  family,  have  the 
fruit  in  those  little  round  spots,  each  with  its  own  cov 
ering  ;  that  is  their  mark." 

"  It  is  so  funny  that  plants  should  have  families,"  said 
Julia.  "  Now  is  this  one  of  the  family,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  Certainly  ;  that  is  a  Cystopteris." 


WITH     THE     FERNS.  129 

"  It's  a  dear  little  thing  !  Where  did  you  get  it,  Mr. 
Rhys?" 

"  I  do  not  remember.  They  grow  pretty  nearly  all 
over  ;  you  find  them  on  rocks,  and  walls." 

"  I  don't  find  them,"  said  Julia.  "  I  wish  I  could. 
Now  what  is  that  ?" 

"  Another  of  the  family,  but  not  a  Cystopteris.  That 
is  the  Holly  fern.  Do  you  see  how  stiff  and  prickly  it 
is  ?  That  was  a  troublesome  one  to  manage.  I  gathered 
it  on  a  high  mountain  in  Wales,  I  think." 

"  Are  high  mountains  good  places  ?" 

"  For  the  mountain  ferns.  That  is  another  Lastraea 
you  have  now ;  that  is  very  elegant.  That  grows  on 
mountains  too,  but  also  on  many  other  places ;  shoots 
up  in  elegant  tufts  almost  a  yard  high.  I  have  seen  it 
very  beautiful.  When  the  fruit  is  ripe,  the  indusium  is 
something  of  a  lilac  colour,  spotting  the  frond  in  double 
rows — as  you  see  it  there.  I  have  seen  these  Lastrseas 
and  others,  growing  in  great  profusion  on  a  wild  place 
in  Devonshire,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  rushing  tor 
rent  of  a  river.  The  spray  flew  up  on  the  rocks  and 
stones  along  its  banks,  keeping  them  moist,  and  some 
times  overflowed  them  ;  and  there  in  the  vegetable  matter 
that  had  by  little  and  little  collected,  there  was  such  a 
show  of  ferns  as  I  have  not  often  seen.  Another  Las- 
tra?a  grew,  I  should  think,  five  feet  high  ;  and  this  one, 
and  the  Lady  fern.  Turn  the  next  sheet — there  it  is. 
That  is  the  Lady  fern." 

"  How  perfectly  beautiful !"  Julia  exclaimed.  "  Is 
that  a  Lastrgea  too  ?" 

Mr.  Rhys  laughed  a  little  as  he  answered  "  No."  Until 
then  his  voice  had  kept  the  quiet  even  tone  of  feeble 
strength. 

"  Why  is  it  called  Lady  fern  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.    Perhaps  because  it  is  so  delicate  in 


130  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

its  structure — perhaps  because  it  is  so  tender.  It  does 
not  bear  being  broken  from  its  root." 

"  But  I  think  Eleanor  is  as  strong  as  anybody,"  said 
Julia. 

"  Don't  you  remember  how  ill  she  was,  only  from 
having  wetted  her  feet,  last  summer  ?"  said  Mr.  Rhys 
with  perfect  gravity. 

"  Well,  what  is  that  ?"  said  Julia,  not  liking  the  in 
ference  they  were  coming  to. 

"That  is  a  little  fern  that  loves  the  wet.  It  grows 
by  waterfalls — those  are  its  homes.  It  grows  close  to 
the  fall,  where  it  will  be  constantly  watered  by  the  spray 
from  it ;  sometimes  this  little  half-brother  it  has,  the  Oak 
fern,  is  found  there  along  with  it.  They  are  elegant 
species." 

"  It  must  be  nice  to  go  to  the  waterfalls  and  climb  up 
to  get  them,"  said  Julia.  "  "What  do  you  call  these  lit 
tle  wet  beauties,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  Polypodies." 

"  Polypodies  !  Now,  Mr.  Rhys, — O  what  is  this  ? 
This  is  prettiest  of  all." 

"  Yes,  one  of  the  very  prettiest.  I  found  that  in  a 
cave,  a  wet  cave,  by  the  sea.  That  is  the  sort  of  home 
it  likes." 

"In  Wales?" 

"  In  Wales  I  have  found  it,  and  elsewhere ;  in  the 
south  of  England ;  but  always  by  the  sea ;  in  places 
Avhere  I  have  seen  a  great  many  other  beautiful  things." 

"  By  the  sea,  Mr.  Rhys  ?  Why  I  have  been  there, 
and  I  did  not  see  anything  but  the  waves  and  the  sand 
and  the  rocks." 

"  You  did  not  know  where  to  look." 

"  Where  did  you  look  ?" 

"  Under  the  rocks  ; — and  in  them." 

"  In  the  rocks,  sir  ?" 

"  In  their  clefts   and  hollows  and   caves.     In  caves 


WITH     THE     FERNS.     '  131 

which  I  could  only  reach  in  a  boat,  or  by  going  in  at  lo\v 
tide;  then  I  saw  things  more  beautiful  than  a  fairy 
palace,  Julia." 

"  What  sort  of  things  ?" 

"  Animals — and  plants." 

"  Beautiful  animals  ?" 

"  Very  beautiful." 

"  "Well  I  wish  you  would  take  me  with  you,  Mr.  Rhys. 
I  would  not  mind  wetting  my  feet.  I  will  be  a  Hard 
fern — not  a  Lady  fern.  Eleanor  shall  be  the  lady.  O 
Mr.  Rhys,  won't  you  hate  to  leave  England  ?" 

"  There  are  plenty  of  beautiful  things  where  I  am 
going,  Julia — if  I  get  well." 

"  But  the  people  are  so  bad  !" 

"  That  is  why  I  want  to  go  to  them." 

"  But  what  can  you  do  to  them  ?" 

"  I  can  tell  them  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  Julia.  They 
have  never  heard  of  him  ;  that  is  why  they*  are  so  evil." 

"  Maybe  they  won't  believe  you,  Mr.  Rhys." 

"  Maybe  they  will.  But  the  Lord  has  commanded  me 
to  go,  all  the  same." 

"  How,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

He  answered  in  the  beautiful  words  of  Paul — "  How 
shall  they  believe  on  him  of  whom  they  have  not  heard  ? 
and  how  shall  they  hear  without  a  preacher  ?"  There 
was  a  sorrowful  depth  in  his  tones,  speaking  to  himself 
rather  than  to  his  little  listener. 

"  Mr.  Rhys,  they  are  such  dreadfully  bad  people,  they 
might  kill  you,  and  eat  you." 

"  Yes." 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  ?" 

"  No." 

There  is  strangely  much  sometimes  expressed,  one  can 
hardly  say  how,  in  the  tone  of  a  single  word.  So  it 
was  with  this  word,  even  to  the  ears  of  Eleanor  in  the 
next  room.  It  was  round  and  sweet,  untrembling,  with 


132  THE     OLD     HE  I,  MET. 

something  like  a  vibration  of  joy  in  its  low  utterance. 
It  was  but  a  word,  said  in  answer  to  a  child's  idle  ques 
tion  ;  it  pierced  like  a  barbed  arrow  through  all  the  in 
volutions  of  another  heart,  down  into  the  core.  It  was 
an  accent  of  strength  and  quiet  and  fearless  security) 
though  spoken  by  lips  that  were  very  uncertain  of  their 
tenure  of  life.  It  gave  the  chord  that  Eleanor  wanted 
sounded  in  her  own  soul ;  where  now  there  was  no  har 
mony  at  all,  but  sometimes  a  jarring  clang,  and  some 
times  an  echo  of  fear. 

"  But  Mr.  Rhys,  aren't  they  very  dreadful,  over  there 
where  you  want  to  go  ?"  Julia  said. 

"  Very  dreadful ;  more  than  you  can  possibly  imagine, 
or  than  I  can,  perhaps." 

"  Well  I  hope  you  won't  go.  Mr.  Rhys,  I  think  Mrs. 
Williams  stays  a  great  while — it  is  time  the  kettle  was 
on  for  your  tea." 

Eleanor  had  hardly  time  to  be  astonished  at  this  most 
novel  display  of  careful  housewifery  on  her  little  sister's 
part,  whom  indeed  she  would  have  supposed  to  be  igno 
rant  that  such  a  thing  as  a  kettle  existed ;  when  Julia  came 
bounding  into  the  outer  room  to  look  after  the  article, 
or  after  the  old  dame  who  should  take  charge  of  it.  She 
stopped  short,  and  Eleanor  raised  her  head.  Julia's  ex 
clamation  was  hearty. 

"  Hush  !"  whispered  Eleanor. 

"  What  should  I  hush  for  ?  there's  -nobody  here  but 
Mr.  Rhys  in  the  other  room ;  and  he  was  saying  the 
other  day  that  he  wanted  to  see  you." 

Back  she  bounded.  "  Mr.  Rhys,  here's  Eleanor  in  the 
other  room,  and  no  Mrs.  Williams." 

Eleanor  heard  the  quiet  answer — "  Tell  your  sister, 
that  as  I  cannot  walk  out  to  see  her,  perhaps  she  will  do 
me  the  favour  to  come  in  here." 

There  was  nothing  better,  in  the  circumstances ;  in 
deed  Eleanor  felt  she  must  go  in  to  explain  herself;  she 


WITH     THE     FERNS.  133 

only  waited  for  Julia's  brisk  summons — "  Eleanor,  Mr. 
Rhys  wants  to  see  you  !" — and  gathering  up  her  habit 
she  walked  into  the  other  room  as  steadily  as  if  she  had 
all  the  right  in  the  world  to  be  there ;  bearing  herself  a 
little  proudly,  for  a  sudden  thought  of  Mr.  Carlisle  came 
over  her.  Mr.  Rhys  was  lying  on  the  couch,  as  she  had 
seen  him  before  ;  but  she  was  startled  at  the  paleness  of 
his  face,  made  more  startling  by  the  very  dark  eyebrows 
and  bushy  hair.  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  as  she 
came  in,  and  Eleanor  could  not  refuse  to  give  him  her 
hand. 

"  I  ought  to  apologize  for  not  rising  to  receive  you," 
he  said, — "  but  you  sec  I  cannot  help  it." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Rhys.  Are  you  less  strong 
than  you  were  a  few  weeks  ago  ?" 

"  I  seem  to  have  no  strength  at  all  now,"  he  answered 
with  a  half  laugh.  "  Will  you  not  sit  down  ?  Julia, 
suppose  you  coax  the  fire  to  burn  a  little  brighter,  for 
your  sister's  welcome  ?" 

"  She  can  do  it  herself,"  said  Julia.  "  I  am  going  to 
see  to  the  fire  in  the  other  room." 

"  No,  that  would  be  inhospitable,"  Mr.  Rhys  said 
with  a  smile  ;  "  and  I  do  not  believe  your  sister  knows 
how,  Julia.  She  has  not  learned  as  many  things  as  you 
have." 

Julia  gave  her  friend  a  very  loving  look  and  went  at 
the  fire  without  more  words.  Eleanor  sat  under  a  strange 
spell.  She  hardly  knew  her  sister  in  that  look;  and 
there  was  about  the  pale  pure  face  that  lay  on  the  couch, 
with  its  shining  eyes,  an  atmosphere  of  influence  that 
subdued  and  enthralled  her.  It  was  with  an  eifort  that 
she  roused  herself  to  give  the  intended  explanation  of 
her  being  in  that  place.  Mr.  Rhys  heard  her  throughout. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  were  thrown,"  he  said  ;  "  since 
it  has  procured  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you." 

"  Mr.  Carlisle  will  never  let  you  ride  alone  again — that 


134  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

-S  one  thing !"  said  Julia.  And  having  finished  the  firo 
and  her  exclamatory  comments  together,  she  ran  off  into 
the  other  room.  Her  last  words  had  called  up  a  deep 
flush  on  Eleanor's  face.  Mr.  Rhys  waited  till  it  had 
passed  quite  away,  then  he  asked  very  calmly,  and  put. 
ting  the  question  also  with  his  bright  eyes, 

"  How  have  you  been,  since  I  saw  you  last  ?" 

The  eyes  were  bright,  not  with  the  specular  bright 
ness  of  many  eyes,  but  with  a  sort  of  fulness  of  light 
and  keenness  of  intelligent  vision.  Eleanor  knew  per 
fectly  well  to  what  they  referred.  She  shrank  within 
herself,  cowered,  and  hesitated.  Then  made  a  brave  effort 
and  threw  back  the  question. 

"  How  have  you  been,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  I  have  been  well,"  he  said.  "  You  know  it  is  the 
privilege  of  the  children  of  God,  to  glory  in  tribula 
tions.  That  is  what  I  am  doing." 

"  Have  you  been  so  very  ill  ?"  asked  Eleanor. 

"  My  illness  gives  me  no  pain,"  he  answered  ;  "  it  only 
incapacitates  me  for  doing  anything.  And  at  first  that 
was  more  grievous  to  me  than  you  can  understand. 
With  so  much  to  do,  and  with  my  heart  in  the  work,  it 
seemed  as  if  my  Master  had  laid  me  aside  and  said, 
*  You  shall  do  no  more ;  y6u  shall  lie  there  and  not  speak 
my  name  to  men  any  longer.'  It  gave  me  great  pain  at 
first — I  was  tempted  to  rebel ;  but  now  I  know  that 
patience  worketh  experience.  I  thank  him  for  the  les 
sons  he  has  taught  me.  I  am  willing  to  go  out  and  be 
useful,  or  to  lie  here  and  be  comparatively  useless, — just 
as  my  Lord  will !" 

The  slow  deliberate  utterance,  which  testified  at  once 
of  physical  weakness  and  mental  power ;  the  absolute 
repose  of  the  bright  face,  touched  Eleanor  profoundly 
She  sat  spell-bound,  forgetting  her  overthrow  and  he; 
fatigue  and  everything  else ;  only  conscious  of  her  strug 
gling  thoughts  and  cares  of  the  weeks  past  and  of  the 


WITH     THE     FERNS.  135 

presence  and  influence  of  the  one  person  she  knew  who 
had  the  key  to  them. 

"Having  so  few  opportunities,"  he  went  on,  "you 
will  not  be  surprised  that  I  hail  every  one  that  offers, 
of  speaking  in  my  Master's  name.  I  know  that  he  has 
summoned  you  to  his  service,  Miss  Powle — is  he  your 
Master  yet  ?" 

Eleanor  pushed  her  chair  round,  grating  it  on  the 
floor,  so  as  to  turn  her  face  a  little  away,  and  answered, 
"  No." 

"  You  have  heard  his  call  to  you  ?" 
Eleanor  felt  her  whole  heart  convulsed  in  the  struggle 
to  answer  or  not  answer  this  question.  With  great  diffi 
culty  she  kept  herself  outwardly  perfectly  quiet ;  and  at 
last  said  hoarsely,  looking  away  from  Mr.  Rhys  into  the 
fire, 

"  How  do  you  know  anything  about  it  ?" 
"  Have  you  yielded  obedience  to  his  commands  ?"  he 
said,  disregarding  her  words. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  they  are — "  Eleanor  answered. 
"  Have  you  sought  to  find  them  out  ?" 
She  hesitated,  and  said  "  no."    Her  face  was  com 
pletely  turned   away  from   him  now  ;  .imt  the  tender 
intonation  of  the   next  words  thrilled  •  through   every 
nerve  of  her  heart  and  brain. 

"  Then  your  head  is  uncovered  yet  by  that  helmet  of 
security  which  you  were  anxious  about  a  little  time 
ago?" 

It  was  the  speech  of  somebody  who  saw  right  into 
her  heart  and  knew  all  that  was  going  on  there  ;  what 
was  the  use  of  holding  out  and  trying  to  maintain  ap 
pearances  ?  Eleanor's  head  sank  ;  her  heart  gave  way  ; 
she  burst  into  teai-s.  Now  was  her  chance,  she  thought : 
the  ice  was  broken  ;  she  would  ask  of  Mr.  Rhys  all  she 
wanted  to  know,  for  he  could  tell  her.  Before  another 
word  was  spoken,  in  rushed  Julia. 


136  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

"  I've  got  that  going,"  she  said  ;  "  you  shall  have  some 
tea  directly,  Mr.  Rhys.  I  hope  Mrs.  Williams  will  stay 
away  till  I  get  through.  Now  it  Avill  take  a  little  while 
— come  here,  Eleanor,  and  look  at  these  beautiful  ferns.'' 

Eleanor  was  sitting  upright  again  ;  she  had  driven  the 
tears  back.  She  hoped  for  another  chance  of  speaking, 
when  Julia  should  go  to  get  her  tea  ready.  In  the  mean 
while  she  moved  her  seat,  as  her  sister  desired  her,  to 
look  over  the  ferns.  This  brought  her  into  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  the  couch,  where  Julia  sat  on  a  low  bench, 
turning  the  great  sheets  of  paper  on  the  floor  before  her. 
It  brought  Eleanor's  face  into  full  view,  too,  she  knew  ; 
but  now  she  did  not  care  for  that.  Julia  went  on  rap 
turously  with  the  ferns,  asking  information  as  before ; 
and  in  Mr.  Rhys's  answers  there  was  a  grave  tone  of 
preoccupation  which  thrilled  on  Eleanor's  ear  and  kept 
her  own  mind  to  the  point  where  it  had  been. 

"  Are  there  ferns  out  there  where  you  are  going  if 
you  get  well,  Mr.  Rhys?  new  ones?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it." 

"Then  you  will  gather  them  and  dry  them,  won't 
you  ?" 

"  I  think  it  is.  very  possible  I  may." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  go !  O  Mr.  Rhys,  tell  Eleanor 
about  that  place  ;  she  don't  know  about  it.  Tell  her 
what  you  told  me." 

He  did  ;  perhaps  to  fill  up  the  time  and  take  Eleanor's 
attention  from  herself  for  the  moment.  He  gave  a  short 
account  of  the  people  in  question  ;  a  people  of  fine 
physical  and  even  fine  mental  development,  for  savages  ; 
inhabiting  a  country  of  great  beauty  and  rich  natural 
resources  ;  but  at  the  same  time  sunk  in  the  most  abject 
depths  of  moral  debasement.  A  country  where  the 
"  works  of  the  devil"  had  reached  their  utmost  vigour ; 
where  men  lived  but  for  vile  ends,  and  took  the  lives  of 
their  fellow-men  and  each  other  with  the  utmost  ruth- 


WITH     THE     FERNS.  137 

fessness  and  carelessness  and  horrible  cruelty  ;  and  more 
than  that,  where  they  dishonoured  human  life  by  abusing, 
and  even  eating,  the  forms  in  which  human  life  had  resi 
dence.  It  was  a  terrible  picture  Mr.  Rhys  drew,  in  a 
few  words  ;  so  terrible,  that  it  did  take  Eleanor's  atten 
tion  from  all  else  for  the  time. 

"  Is  other  life  safe  there  ?"  she  asked.  "  Do  the  white 
people  who  go  there  feel  themselves  secure  ?" 

"I  presume  they  do  not." 

"  Then  why  go  to  such  a  horrible  place  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?"  he  asked.  "  The  darker  they  are,  the 
more  they  want  light." 

"  But  it  is  to  jeopardize  the  very  life  you  wish  to  use 
for  them." 

Mr.  Rhys  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  when  he  spoke 
it  was  only  to  make  a  remark  about  the  fern  which  lay 
displayed  on  the  floor  before  Julia. 

"  That  Hart's-tongue,"  said  he,  "  I  gathered  from  a 
cavern  on  the  sea-coast — where  it  grew  hanging  down 
from  the  roof, — quantities  of  it." 

"  In  a  dark  cavern,  Mr.  Rhys  ?"  said  Julia. 

"  Not  in  a  dark  part  of  the  cavern.  No,  it  grew  only 
where  it  could  have  the  light. — Miss  Powle,  I  am  of 
David's  mind — "  In  God  I  have  put  my  trust ;  I  Avill  not 
fear  what  flesh  can  do  to  me." 

He  looked  up  at  Eleanor  as  he  spoke.  The  slight 
smile,  the  look,  in  Eleanor's  mood  of  mind,  wei'e  like  a 
coal  of  fire  dropped  into  her  heart.  It  burned.  She 
said  nothing  ;  sat  still  and  looked  at  the  fern  on  the  floor. 

"  But  will  you  not  feel  afraid,  Mr.  Rhys  ?"  said  Julia. 

"  "Why  no,  Julia.  I  shall  have  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of.  You  forget  who  will  be  with  me." 

Julia  with  that  jumped  up  and  ran  off  to  see  about 
her  fire  and  kettle  in  the  other  room.  Eleanor  and  Mr. 
Rhys  were  left  alone.  The  latter  did  not  speak.  Eleanor 
longed  to  hear  more,  and  made  a  great*  effort. 


188  THE      OLD     HELMET. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said  hoarsely,  for  in 
the  stir  of  her  feelings  she  could  not  command  a  clear 
voice.  "  You  say,  He  will  be  Avith  you.  What  do  you 
mean  ?  "We  cannot  see  him  now.  How  will  he  be  with 
you  ?" 

She  had  raised  her  eyes,  and  she  saw  a  strange  softness 
and  light  pass  over  the  face  she  was  looking  at.  Indefina 
ble,  unaccountable,  she  yet  saw  it ;  a  shining  from  the  spir 
itual  glory  within,  which  Eleanor  recognized,  though  she 
had  never  seen  it  before.  Fire  and  water  were  in  those 
bright  eyes  at  once  ;  and  Eleanor  guessed  the  latter  evi 
dence  of  emotion  was  for  his  ignorant  questioner.  She 
had  no  heart  left.  By  such  a  flash  of  revelation  the 
light  from  one  spirit  shewed  the  other  its  darkness ; 
dimly  known  to  her  before ;  but  now,  once  and  forever, 
she  knew  where  she  stood  and  where  he  stood,  and 
what  the  want  of  her  life  must  be,  till  she  should  stand 
there  too.  Her  face  shewed  but  a  little  of  the  work 
going  on  with  heavings  and  strugglings  in  her  mind  ;  yet 
doubtless  it  was  as  readable  to  her  companion  as  his  had 
been  to  her.  She  could  only  hear  at  the  time — after 
wards  she  pondered — the  words  of  his  reply. 

"  I  cannot  shew  him  to  you  ; — but  he  will  shew  himself 
to  you,  if  you  seek  him." 

There  was  no  chance  for  more  Avords  ;  Julia  came  in 
again,  and  was  thereafter  bustling  in  and  out,  getting 
her  cup  of  tea  ready.  Eleanor  could  not  meet  her  little 
sister's  looks  and  probable  words  ;  she  turned  hastily 
from  the  ferns  and  the  couch  and  put  herself  at  the  win 
dow  with  her  back  to  everybody.  There  was  a  wild  cry 
in  her  heart — "  What  shall  I  do !  what  shall  I  do !"  One 
thing  she  must  have,  or  be  miserable  ;  how  was  she  to 
make  it  her  own.  As  soon  as  she  turned  her  face  from 
that  cottage  room  and  what  was  in  it,  she  must  meet  the 
full  blast  of  opposing  currents ;  unfavourable,  adverse, 
overwhelming.  Her  light  was  not  strong  enough  to 


WITH      THE     P  E  E  N  S  .  139 

stand  that  blast,  Eleanor  knew ;  it  would  be  blown  out 
directly  ; — and  she  left  in  darkness.  In  a  desperate  sense 
•  of  this,  a  desperate  resolve  to  overcome  it  somehow,  a 
despairing  powerlessness  to  contend,  she  sat  at  the  win 
dow  seeing  nothing.  She  was  brought  to  herself  at  last  by 
Julia's,  "  Eleanor — Mr.  Rhys  wants  you  to  take  a  cup  of 
tea."  Eleanor  turned  round  mechanically,  took  the  cup, 
and  changed  her  place  for  one  near  the  fire. 

She  never  forgot  that  scene.  Julia's  part  in  it  gave  ft 
a  most  strange  air  to  Eleanor  ;  so  did  her  own.  Julia 
was  moving  about,  quite  at  home,  preparing  cups  of  tea 
for  everybody,  herself  included  ;  and  waiting  upon  Mr. 
Rhys  with  a  steady  care  and  affectionateness  which  evi 
dently  met  with  an  affectionate  return.  The  cottage  room 
with  its  plain  furniture — the  little  common  blue  cups  in 
which  the  tea  was  served — the  fire  in  the  chimney  on  the 
coarse  iron  fire-dogs — the  reclining  figure  on  the  couch, 
and  her  own  riding-habit  in  the  middle  of  the  room ; 
were  all  stereotyped  on  Eleanor's  memory  for  ever.  The 
tea  refreshed  her  very  much. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  get  home,  Miss  Powle  ?" 
asked  her  host.  "  Have  you  sent  for  a  carriage  ?" 

"  No — I  saAV  nobody  to  send — I  can  walk  it  quite  well 
now,"  said  Eleanor.  And  feeling  that  the  time  was 
come,  she  set  down  her  tea-cup  and  came  to  bid  her  host 
good-bye  ;  though  she  shrank  from  doing  it.  She  gave 
him  her  hand  again,  but  she  had  no  words  to  speak. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  he.  "  I  am  sorry  I  am  not  well 
enough  to  come  and  see  you ;  I  would  take  that  lib 
erty." 

"  And  so  I  shall  never  see  him  again,"  thought  Eleanor 
as  she  went  out  of  the  cottage  ;  "  and  nobody  will  ever 
speak  any  more  words  to  me  of  what  I  want  to  hear ; 
and  what  will  become  of  me !  What  chance  shall  I  have 
very  soon — what  chance  have  I  now — to  attend  to  these 
things  ?  to  get  right  ?  and  what  chance  would  all  these 


140  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

things  have  with  Mr.  Carlisle  ?  I  could  manage  ray 
mother.  What  will  become  of  me  !" 

Eleanor  walked  and  thought,  both  hard,  till  she  got 
past  the  village ;  fin  ding -herself  alone,  thought  got  the 
better  of  haste,  and  she  threw  herself  down  under  a 
tree  to  collect  some  order  and  steadiness  in  her  mind  if 
possible  before  other  interests  and  distractions  broke  in. 
She  sat  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands  a  good  while. 
And  one  conclusion  Eleanor's  thoughts  came  to  ;  that 
there  was  a  thing  more  needful  than  other  things  ;  and 
that  she  would  hold  that  one  thing  first  in  her  mind,  and 
keep  it  first  in  her  endeavours,  and  make  all  her  arrange 
ments  accordingly.  Eleanor  was  young  and  untried, 
but  her  mind  had  a  tolerable  back-bone  of  stiffness  when 
once  aroused  to  take  action  ;  her  conclusion  meant  some 
thing.  She  rose  up,  then  ;  looked  to  see  how  far  down 
the  sun  Avas ;  and  turning  to  pursue  her  walk  vigor 
ously — found  Mr.  Carlisle  at  her  side.  He  was  as  much 
surprised  as  she. 

"  Why  Eleanor !  what  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"  Trying  to  get  home.  I  have  been  thrown  from  my 
pony." 

"  Thrown  !  where  ?" 

"  Away  on  the  moor — I  don't  know  Avhere.  I  never 
was  there  before.  I  am  not  hurt." 

"  Then  how  come  you  here  ?" 

"  Walked  here,  sir." 

"  And  where  are  your  servants  ?" 

"  You  forget.  I  am  only  Eleanor  Powle — I  do  not 
go  with  a  train  after  me." 

But  she  was  obliged  to  give  an  account  of  the  whole 
affair. 

"  You  must  not  go  alone  in  that  way  again,"  said  he 
decidedly.  "  Sit  down  again." 

"  Look  where  the  sun  is.  I  am  going  home,"  said 
Eleanor. 


WITH     THK     FERNS.  141 

"  Sit  down.     I  am  going  to  send  for  a  carriage." 

Eleanor  protested,  in  vain.  Mr.  Carlisle  sent  his  groom 
on  to  the  Lodge  with  the  message,  and^  the  heels  of  the 
horses  were  presently  clatteiing  in  the  distance.  Eleanor 
stood  still. 

"  I  do  not  want  rest,"  she  insisted.  "  I  am  ready  to 
walk  home,  and  able.  I  have  been  resting." 

"  How  long  ?" 

"  A  long  while.  I  went  into  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage 
and  rested  there.  I  would  rather  go  on." 

He  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  turned  towards 
the  Lodge,  but  permitted  her  after  all  to  move  only  at 
the  gentlest  of  rates. 

"  You  will  not  go  out  in  this  Avay  again  ?"  he  said  ; 
and  the  words  \vere  more  an  expression  of  his  own  will 
than  an  enquiry  as  to  hers. 

"•  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not,"  Eleanor  an 
swered. 

"  I  do  not  like  that  you  should  be  walking  over  moors 
and  taking  shelter  in  cottages,  without  protection." 

"  I  can  protect  myself.     I  know  what  is  due  to  me." 

"  You  must  remember  what  is  due  to  me,"  he  said 
laughing,  and  stopping  her  lips  when  she  would  have 
replied.  Eleanor  walked  along,  silenced,  and  for  the 
moment  subdued.  The  wish  was  in  her  heart,  to  have 
let  Mr.  Carlisle  know  in  some  degree  what  bent  her  spirit 
was  taking ;  to  have  given  him  some  hint  of  what  he 
must  expect  in  her  when  she  became  his  wife ;  she  could 
not  find  how  to  do  it.  She  could  not  see  the  way  to  be 
gin.  So  far  was  Mr.  Carlisle  from  the  whole  world  of 
religious  interests  and  concerns,  that  to  introduce  it  to 
him  seemed  like  bringing  opposite  poles  together.  She 
walked  by  his  side  very  silent  and  doubtful.  He  thought 
she  was  tired ;  put  her  into  the  carriage  with  great  ten 
derness  when  it  came ;  and  at  parting  from  her  in  the 
evening  desired  her  to  go  early  to  rest. 


142  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

Eleanor  was  very  little  likely  to  do  it.  The  bodily 
adventures  of  the  day  had  left  little  trace,  or  little  that  was 
regarded  ;  the  mental  journey  had  been  much  more  last 
ing  in  its  effects.  That  night  there  was  a  young  moon,  and 
Eleanor  sat  at  her  window,  looking  out  into  the  shadowy 
indistinctness  of  the  outer  world,  while  she  tried  to  re 
solve  the  confusion  of  her  mind  into  something  like  visi 
ble  order  and  definiteness.  Two  points  were  clear,  and 
seemed  to  loom  up  larger  and  clearer  the  longer  she 
thought  about  them ;  her  supreme  need  of  that  which 
she  had  not,  the  faith  and  deliverance  of  religion ;  and 
the  adverse  influence  and  opposition  of  Mr.  Carlisle  in 
all  the  efforts  she  might  make  to  secure  or  maintain  it. 
And  under  all  this  lurked  a  thought  that  was  like  a  ser 
pent  for  its  unrecognized  coming  and  going  and  for  the 
sting  it  left, — a  wish  that  she  could  put  off  her  marriage. 
No  new  thing  in  one  way ;  Eleanor  had  never  been  wil 
ling  it  should  be  fixed  for  so  early  a  day ;  nevertheless 
she  had  accepted  and  submitted  to  it,  and  become  accus 
tomed  to  the  thought  of  it.  Now  repugnance  started 
up  anew  and  with  fresh  energy.  She  could  hardly  un 
derstand  herself ;  her  thoughts  were  a  great  turmoil; 
they  went  over  and  over  some  of  the  experiences  of  the 
day,  with  an  aimless  dwelling  upon  them ;  yet  Eleanor 
was  in  general  no  dreamer.  The  words  of  Mr.  Rhys, 
that  had  pierced  her  with  a  sense  of  duty  and  need — the 
looks,  that  even  in  the  remembrance  wrung  her  heart 
with  their  silent  lesson-bearing — the  sympathy  testified 
for  herself,  which  intensified  all  her  own  emotions, — and 
in  contrast,  the  very  tender  and  affectionate  but  supreme 
manner  of  Mr.  Carlisle,  in  whose  power  she  felt  she  was, — 
the  alternation  of  these  images  and  the  thoughts  they 
gave  rise  to,  kept  Eleanor  at  her  window,  until  the  young 
moon  went  down  behind  the  western  horizon  and  the  night 
was  dark  with  only  stars.  So  dark  she  felt,  and  miser 
able  ;  and  over  and  over  and  over  again  her  cry  of  that 


WITH     THE      FEKNS.  143 

afternoon  was  re-echoed, — "  What  shall  I  do !  what  will 
become  of  me !" 

Upon  one  thing  she  fixed.  That  Mr.  Carlisle  should 
know  that  he  was  not  going  to  find  a  gay  wife  in  her, 
but  one  whose  mind  was  set  upon  somewhat  else  and 
upon  another  way  of  life.  This  would  be  very  distaste 
ful  to  him ;  and  he  should  know  it.  JJow  she  would 
manage  to  let  him  know,  Eleanor  left  to  circumstances  ; 
but  she  went  to  bed  with  that  point  determined. 


OHAPTEE    VIII. 

"  It  hath  been  the  longest  night 
That  e'er  I  •watched,  and  the  most  heaviest" 

GOOD  resolutions  are  sometimes  excellent  things,  but 
they  are  susceptible  of  overturns.  Eleanor's  met  with 
one. 

She  was  sitting  with  Mr.  Carlisle  the  very  next  day, 
in  a  disturbed  mood  of  mind ;  for  he  and  her  mother 
had  been  laying  plans  and  making  dispositions  with 
reference  to  her  approaching  marriage  ;  plans  and  dispo 
sitions  in  which  her  voice  was  not  asked,  and  in  which 
matters  were  carried  rapidly  forward  towards  their  con 
summation.  Eleanor  felt  that  bands  and  chains  Avere 
getting  multiplied  round  her,  fastening  her  more  and 
more  in  the  possession  of  her  captor,  while  her  own 
mind  was  preparing  what  would  be  considered  resist 
ance  to  the  authority  thus  secured.  The  sooner  she 
spoke  the  better ;  but  how  to  begin  ?  She  bent  over  her 
embroidery  frame  with  cheeks  that  gradually  grew  burn 
ing  hot.  The  soft  wind  that  blew  in  from  the  open  win 
dow  at  her  side  would  not  cool  them.  Mr.  Carlisle  came 
and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  said  he  laughingly,  draw 
ing  his  finger  softly  over  Eleanor's  rich  cheek. 

"  It's  hot !"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Is  it  ?  I  have  the  advantage  of  you.  It  is  the  per 
fection  of  a  day  to  me." 

"  Eleanor,"  cried  Julia  bounding  in  through  the  win 
dow,  "  Mr.  Rhys  is  better  to-day.  He  says  so." 


IN     THE     BARN.  145 

'•  Is  he  ?"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Yes  ;  you  know  how  weak  he  was  yesterday ;  he  is 
not  quite  so  weak  to-day." 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Rhys  ?"  said  Mr.  Carlisle. 

"O  he  is  nice!  Eleanor  says  nice  rhymes  to  Rhys. 
Wasn't  my  tea  nice,  Eleanor  ?  We  had  Miss  Broadus 
to  tea  this  afternoon.  We  had  you  yesterday  and  Miss 
Broadus  to-day.  I  wonder  who  will  come  next." 

"  Is  this  a  sick  friend  you  have  been  visiting  ?"  said 
Mr.  Carlisle,  as  Julia  ran  off,  having  accomplished  the 
discomfiture  of  her  sister. 

"  No,  not  at  all — only  I  stopped  at  Mrs.  Williams'  cot 
tage  to  rest  yesterday ;  and  he  lives  there." 

"  You  saw  him  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  Julia  found  me,  and  I  could  not  help  seeing 
him." 

"  But  you  took  tea  there,  Eleanor  ?     With  whom  ?" 

"  I  took  tea  with  Julia  and  her  sick  friend.  Why 
not  ?  She  was  making  a  cup  of  tea  for  him  and  gave 
me  one.  I  was  very  glad  of  it.  There  was  no  one  else 
in  the  house." 

"  How  is  your  sister  allowed  to  do  such  things  ?" 

"  For  a  sick  friend,  Mr.  Carlisle  ?  I  think  it  is  well 
anybody's  part  to  do  such  things." 

"I  think  I  will  forbid  embroidery  frames  at  the 
Priory,  if  they  are  to  keep  me  from  seeing  your  eyes," 
said  he,  with  one  arm  drawing  her  back  from  the  frame 
and  with  the  other  hand  taking  her  fingers  from  it,  and 
looking  into  her  face,  but  kissing  her.  "Now  tell -me 
who  is  this  gentleman  ?" 

Eleanor  was  irritated  ;  yet  the  assumption  of  authority, 
calm  and  proud  as  it  was,  had  a  mixture  of  tenderness 
which  partly  soothed  her.  The  demand  however  was 
imperious.  Eleanor  answered. 

"  He  was  Alfred's  tutor — you  have  seen  him — he  has 


146  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

been  very  ill  all  summer.  He  is  a  sick  man,  staying  in 
the  village." 

"  And  what  have  you  to  do  with  such  a  person  ?" 

"  Nothing  in  the  world  !  I  stopped  there  to  rest  my- 
self,  because  I  was  too  tired  to  walk  home." 

He  smiled  at  her  kindling  indignation,  and  gave  her  a 
kiss  by  way  of  forgiveness  for  it ;  then  went  on  gravely 

"  You  have  been  to  that  cottage  before,  Eleanor  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  How  was  that  ?" 

"  I  went  with  Julia  when  she  was  carrying  some  re 
freshments  to  her  sick  friend.  I  will  do  that  for  any 
body,  Mr.  Carlisle." 

"  Say  that  over  again,"  he  said  calmly,  but  with  a 
manner  that  shewed  he  would  have  it.  And  Eleanor 
could  not  resist. 

"  I  would  do  that  for  anybody,  Macintosh,"  she  said 
gently,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  No,  darling.  You  shall  send  nurses  and  supplies  to 
all  the  folk  in  the  kingdom — if  you  will — but  you  shall 
pay  such  honour  as  this  to  nobody  but  me." 

"  Mr.  Carlisle,"  said  Eleanor  rousing  again,  "  if  I  am 
not  worthy  your  trust,  I  am  not  fit  to  do  either  you  or 
anybody  else  honour." 

She  had  straightened  herself  up  to  face  him  as  she 
said  this,  but  it  was  mortifying  to  feel  how  little  she 
could  rouse  him.  He  only  dre\v  her  back  into  his  arms, 
folding  her  close  and  kissing  her  again  and  again. 

"  You  are  naughty,"  he  said,  "  but  you  are  good. 
You  are  as  sweet  as  a  rose,  Eleanor.  My  wife  will  obey 
me,  in  a  few  things,  and  she  shall  command  me  iu  all 
others.  Darling,  I  wish  you  not  to  be  seen  in  the  vil 
lage  again  alone.  Let  some  one  attend  you,  if  I  am  not 
at  hand." 

He  suffered  her  to  return  to  her  embroidery ;  but 
though  Eleanor's  heart  beat  and  her  cheek  was  flushed 


IN     THE     BARN.  147 

with  contending  feelings,  she  could  not  find  a  word  to 
say.  Her  heart  rebelled  against  the  authority  held  over 
her ;  nevertheless  it  subdued  her ;  she  dared  not  bring 
her  rebellion  into  open  light.  She  shrank  from  that ; 
and  hid  now  in  her  own  thoughts  all  the  new  revelations 
she  had  meant  to  draw  forth  for  Mr.  Carlisle's  entertain 
ment.  Now  was  no  time.  In  fact  Eleanor's  conscious 
ness  made  her  afraid  that  if  she  mentioned  her  religious 
purposes  and  uneasiness,  this  man's  aouteness  would 
catch  at  the  connecting  link  between  the  new  derelic 
tion  of  duty  and  the  former  which  had  been  just  re 
buked.  That  would  lay  her  open  to  imputations  and 
suspicions  too  dishonouring  to  be  risked,  and  impossible 
to  disprove,  however  false.  She  must  hold  her  tongue 
for  the  present;  and  Eleanor  worked  on  at  her  em 
broidery,  her  fingers  pulling  at  it  energetically,  while 
feeling  herself  much  more  completely  in  another's  power 
than  it  suited  her  nature  to  be.  Somehow  at  this  time 
the  vision  of  Rythdale  Priory  was  not  the  indemnifica 
tion  it  had  seemed  to  her  before.  Eleanor  liked  Mr. 
Carlisle,  but  she  did  not  like  to  be  governed  by  him ; 
although  with  an  odd  inconsistency,  it  was  that  very 
power  of  government  which  formed  part  of  his  attrac 
tion.  Certainly  women  are  strange  creatures.  Mean 
while  she  tugged  on  at  her  work  with  a  hot  cheek  and  a 
divided  mind,  and  a  wisely  silent  tongue ;  and  Mr.  Car 
lisle  sat  by  and  made  himself  very  busy  with  her,  finding 
out  ways  of  being  both  pleasant  and  useful.  Finally  he 
put  a  stop  to  the  embroidery  and  engaged  Eleanor  in  a 
game  of  chess  with  him ;  began  to  teach  her  how  to 
play  it,  and  succeeded  in  getting  her  thoroughly  inter 
ested  and  diverted  from  her  troublesome  thoughts. 
They  returned  as  soon  as  he  left  her. 

"  I  can  never  speak  to  him  about  my  religious  feel 
ings,"  mused  Eleanor  as  she  walked  slowly  to  her  own 
room, — "  never !  I  almost  think,  if  I  did,  he  would  find 


148  X  II  E      O  L  D      HE  L  MET. 

means  to  cheat  me  out  of  them,  in  spite  of  all  my  deter 
minations — until  it  would  be  too  late.  What  is  to  become 
of  me  ?  What  a  double  part  I  shall  play  now — my 
heart  all  one'way,  my  outer  life  all  another.  It  must  be 
so.  I  can  shew  these  thoughts  to  no  one.  Will  they 
live,  shut  up  in  the  dai'k  so  ?" 

Mr.  Rhys's  words  about  "  seeking"  recurred  to  her- 
Eleanor  did  not  know  how,  and  felt  strange.  "  I  could 
follow  his  prayers,  if  I  heard  them,"  she  said  to  her 
self; — "  I  do  not  know  how  to  set  about  it.  I  suppose 
reading  the  Bible  is  good — that  and  good  books." 

And  that  Eleanor  tried.  Good  books  however  were 
by  and  by  given  up ;  none  that  she  had  in  the  least 
suited  her  wants  ;  only  the  Bible  proved  both  a  light 
and  a  power  to  her.  It  had  a  great  fascination  for  Elea 
nor,  and  it  sometimes  made  her  hopeful ;  at  any  rate  she 
persevered  in  reading  it,  through  gloom  and  cheer ;  and 
her  mind  when  she  was  alone  knew  much  more  of  the 
former  condition  than  of  the  latter.  When  not  alone, 
she  was  in  a  whirl  of  other  occupations  and  interests. 
The  prepai'ations  for  her  marriage  went  on  diligently ; 
Eleanor  saw  it  and  knew  it,  and  would  not  help  though 
she  could  not  hinder.  But  she  was  very  far  from 
happy.  The  style  and  title  of  Lady  Rythdale  had  faded 
in  her  imagination ;  other  honour  and  glory,  though 
dimly  seen,  seemed  more  desirable  to  Eleanor  now,  and 
seemed  endangered  by  this.  She  was  very  uneasy.  She 
struggled  between  the  remaining  sense  of  pride,  which 
sometimes  arose  to  life,  and  this  thought  of  something 
better ;  at  other  times  she  felt  as  if  her  marriage  with 
Mr.  Carlisle  would  doom  her  forever  to  go  without  any 
treasure  but  what  an  earthly  coronet  well  lined  with 
ermine  might  symbolize  and  ensure.  Meanwhile  weeks 
flew  by;  while  Eleanor  studied  the  Bible  and  sought 
for  light  in  her  solitary  hours  at  night,  and  joined  in  all 
Mr.  Carlisle's  plans  of  gayety  by  day.  September  and 


IN     THE     BARN.  149 

October  were  both  gone.  November's  short  days  begun 
And  when  the  days  should  be  at  the  shortest — "  Then," 
thought  Eleanor,  "  my  fate  will  be  settled.  Mr.  Carlisle 
will  have  me  ;  and  I  can  never  disobey  him.  I  cannot 
now." 

November  reached  the  middle,  and  there  wanted  but 
little  more  than  a  month  to  the  wedding-day.  Eleanor 
sat  one  morning  in  her  garden  parlour,  which  a  mild  day 
made  pleasant ;  working  by  the  glass  door.  The  old 
thought,  "  What  will  become  of  me !"  was  in  her  heart. 
A  shadow  darkened  the  door.  Eleanor  looked  up,  fear 
ing  to  see  Mr.  Carlisle  ;  it  was  her  little  sister  Julia. 

Julia  opened  the  door  and  came  in.  "  It  is  nice  in  the 
garden,  Eleanor,"  she  said.  "  The  chrysanthemums  are 
so  beautiful  as  I  never  saw  them — white  and  yellow 
and  orange  and  rose-colour,  and  a  hundred  colours.  They 
are  beautiful,  Eleanor." 

"  Yes." 

"  May  I  have  a  great  bunch  of  them  to  take  to  Mr. 
Rhys  ?" 

"  Have  what  you  like.  I  thought  you  used  to  take 
them  without  asking." 

Julia  looked  serious. 

"  I  wish  I  could  go  down  to  the  village  to-night,  I 
know" — she  said. 

"  To-night  !     What  do  you  wish  that  for  ?" 

"  Because,  Mr.  Rhys  is  going  to  preach ;  and  -J  -do 
want  to  go  so  much  ;  but  I  can't." 

"  Going  to  preach ! — why  is  he  so  well  as  that  ?" 

"He  isn't  well  at  all,"  said  Julia, — "not  what  you 
would  call  well.  But  he  says  he  is  well.  He  is  white 
and  weak  enough  yet ;  and  I  don't  think  that  is  being 
well.  He  can't  go  to  Lily  Dale  nor  to  Rythdale ;  so 
some  of  the  people  are  coming  to  Wiglands." 

"  Where  is  he  going  to  preach  ?" 

"  Where  do  you  think  ?    In  Mr.  Brooks's  barn.    They 


150  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

won't  let  him  preach  at  the  inn,  and  he  can't  have  the 
church  ;  and  I  do  want  to  see  how  he  can  preach  in  the 
barn !" 

Mr.  Brooks  was  a  well-to-do  farmer,  a  tenant  of  the 
Rythdale  estate,  living  near  the  road  to  the  old  priory 
and  half  a  mile  from  the  village  of  Wiglands.  A  con 
suming  desire  seized  Eleanor  to  do  as  her  little  sister  had 
said — hear  Mr.  Rhys  preach.  The  desire  was  so  violent 
that  it  half  frightened  her  with  the  possibility  of  its  ful 
filment. 

She  told  Julia  that  it  was  an  absurd  wish,  and  imprac 
ticable,  and  dismissed  her;  and  then  her  whole  mind 
focussed  itself  on  Mr.  Brooks's  barn.  Eleanor  saw  noth 
ing  else  through  the  morning,  whatever  she  was  doing. 
It  was  impossible  she  should  get  there,  perfectly  impos 
sible  !  yet  it  was  a  first,  last,  and  only  chance,  perhaps 
in  her  life,  of  hearing  the  words  of  truth  so  spoken  as 
she  knew  they  would  be  in  that  place  that  night.  Be 
sides,  she  had  a  craving  curiosity  to  know  how  they  would 
be  spoken.  One  month  more,  Eleanor  once  securely 
lodged  in  Rythdale  Priory,  and  her  chance  of  hearing 
any  words  whatever  spoken  in  a  barn,  was  over  for  ever ; 
unless  indeed  she  condescended  to  become  an  inspector 
of  agricultural  proceedings.  Yet  she  said  to  herself 
over  and  over  that  she  had  no  chance  now  ;  that  her 
being  present  was  a  matter  of  Avild  impossibility ;  she 
saidl  it  and  re-said  it,  and  with  every  time  a  growing 
consciousness  that  impossibility  should  not  stop  her.  At 
last  impossibility  shaped  itself  into  a  plan. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  see  Jane  Lewis,  mamma,"  was 
Eleanor's  announcement  at  luncheon. 

"  To-day,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"But  Mr.   Carlisle   Avill  be  here,   and  he   will  not 
ike  it." 

"  He  will  have  enough  of  me  by  and  by,  ma'am.     I 


IN     THE     BARN.  .     151 

shall  maybe  never  have  another  chance  of  taking  care  of 
Jane.  I  know  she  wants  to  see  me,  and  I  am  going  to 
day.  And  if  she  wants  me  very  much,  I  shall  stay  all 
night ;  so  you  need  not  send." 

"  What  will  Mr.  Carlisle  say  to  all  that  ?" 

"  He  will  say  nothing  to  it,  if  you  do  not  give  him  an 
opportunity,  mamma.  I  am  going,  at  all  events." 

"  Eleanor,  I  am  afraid  you  .have  almost  too  much  in 
dependence,  for  one  who  is  almost  a  married  woman." 

"  Is  independence  a  quality  entirely  given  up,  ma'am, 
when  '  the  ring  is  on '  ?" 

"  Certainly  !  I  thought  you  knew  that.  You  must 
make  up  your  mind  to  it.  You  are  a  noble  creature, 
Eleanor  ;  but  my  comfort  is  that  Mr.  Carlisle  Avill  know 
how  to  manage  you.  I  never  could,  to  my  satisfaction.  I 
observe  he  has  brought  you  in  pretty  well." 

Eleanor  left  the  room ;  and  if  the  tide  of  her  inde 
pendence  could  have  run  higher,  her  mother's  words 
would  have  furnished  the  necessary  provocative. 

Jane  Lewis  was  a  poor  girl  in  the  village ;  the  daugh 
ter  of  one  who  had  been  Eleanor's  nurse,  and  who  now 
old  and  infirm  and  unable  to  do  much  for  herself  or 
others,  watched  the  declining  days  of  her  child  without 
the  power  to  give  them  much  relief.  Jane  .was  dying 
with  consumption.  The  other  member  of  the  family 
was  the  old  father,  still  more  helpless ;  past  work  and 
dependent  on  another  child  for  all  but  the  house  they 
lived  in.  That,  in  earlier  days,  had  been  made  their  own. 
Eleanor  was  their  best  friend,  and  many  a  day,  and  night 
too,  had  been  a  sunbeam  of  comfort  in  the  poor  -house. 
She  now,  when  the  day  was  far  enough  on  its  wane,  pro 
vided  herself  with  a  little  basket  of  grapes,  ordered  her 
pony,  and  rode  swiftly  doAvn  to  the  village ;  not  with 
out  attendance  this  time,  though  confessing  bitterly  to 
herself  the  truth  of  her  mother's  allegations.  At  the 
cottage  door  she  took  the  basket ;  ordered  the  pony 


152.  TUB     OLD      HELMET. 

should  come  for  her  next  morning  at  eight  o'clock,  and 
went  into  the  cottage ;  feeling  as  if  she  had  for  a  little 
space  turned  her  back  upon  troublesome  people  and 
things  and  made  herself  free.  She  went  in  softly,  and 
was  garrulously  welcomed  by  her  old  nurse  and  her  hus 
band.  It  was  so  long  since  they  had  seen  her !  and  she 
was  going  to  be  such  a  great  lady  !  and  they  knew  she 
would  not  forget  them  nevertheless.  It  was  not  flattery. 
It  was  true  speech.  Eleanor  asked  for  Jane,  and  with 
her  basket  went  on  into  the  upper  little  room  where  the 
sick  girl  lay.  There  felt,  when  she  had  got  above  the 
ground  floor,  as  if  she  was  tolerably  safe. 

It  was  a  little  low  room  under  the  thatch,  in  which 
Eleanor  now  hid  herself.  A  mere  large  closet  of  a  room, 
though  it  boasted  of  a  fireplace,  happily.  A  small  lattice 
under  the  shelving  roof  let  in  what  it  could  of  the  light 
of  a  dying  November  day.  The  bed  with  its  sick  occu 
pant,  two  chairs,  a  little  table,  and  a  bit  of  carpet  on  the 
floor,  were  all  the  light  revealed.  Eleanor's  welcome 
here  was  also  most  sincere;  less  talkative,  it  was  yet 
more  glad  than  that  given  by  the  old  couple  down  stairs; 
a  light  shone  all  over  the  pale  face  of  the  sick  girl,  and 
the  weary  eye  kindled,  at  sight  of  her  friend. 

Extreme  neatness  was  not  the  characteristic  of  this 
little  low  room,  simply  for  want  of  able  hands  to  ensure 
it.  Eleanor's  first  work  was  to  set  Jane  to  eating 
grapes ;  her  next,  to  put  the  place  in  tidy  order.  "  Lady 
Rythdale  shall  be  useful  once  more  in  her  life,"  she 
thought.  She  brushed  up  the  floor,  swept  the  hearth, 
demolished  cobwebs  on  the  walls,  and  rubbed  down  the 
chairs.  She  had  borrowed  an  apron  and  cap  from  old 
Mrs.  Lewis.  The  sick  girl  watched  her  with  eager  eyes. 

"  I  can't  abear  to  see  you  a  doing  of  that,  Miss  El 
eanor,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Hush,  Jane  !     Eat  your  grapes." 

"  You've  a  kind  heart,"  said  the  girl   sighing ;  "  and 


IN     THE     BARN.  153 

it's  good  when  them  that  has  the  power  has  the  feel 
ings." 

"  How  are  your  nights  now,  Jane  ?" 

"  They're  tedious — I  lie  awake  so ;  and  then  I  get 
coughing.  I  am  always  so  glad  to  see  the  light  come  in 
the  mornings  !  but  it's  long  a  coming  now.  I  can't  get 
nobody  to  hear  me  at  night  if  I  want  anything." 

"  Do  you  often  want  something  ?" 

"  Times,  I  do.  Times,  I  get  out  of  wanting,  because 
I  can't  have — and  times  I  only  want  worse." 

"  WJiat  do  you  want,  Jane  ?" 

"  Well,  Miss  Eleanor, — I  conceit  I  want  to  see  some 
body.  The  nights  is  very  long — and  in  the  dark  and  by 
myself — I  gets  feared." 

To  Eleanor's  dismay  she  perceived  Jane  was  weeping. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  afraid  of,  Jane?  I  never 
saw  you  so  before." 

"  Tisn't  of  anything  in  this  world,  Miss  Eleanor,"  said 
Jane.  Her  face  was  still  covered  with  her  hands,  and 
the  grapes  neglected. 

Eleanor  was  utterly  confounded.  Had  Jane  caught 
her  feeling  ?  or  was  this  something  else  ? 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  spirits,  Jane  ?" 

"  No,  Miss  Eleanor." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  Jane,  this  is  something  new.  I 
never  saw  you  feeling  so  before." 

"  No,  ma'am — and  I  didn't.  But  there  come  a  gentle 
man  to  see  me,  ma'am." 

"  A  gentleman  to  see  you  ?     What  gentleman  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Miss  Eleanor ;  only  he  was  tall,  and 
pale-like,  and  black  hair.  He  asked  me  if  I  was  ready 
to  die — and  I  said  I  didn't  know  what  it  was  I  wanted 

if  I  wasn't ;  and  he  told  me Oh,  I  know  I'll  never 

have  rest  no  more  !" 

A  burst  of  weeping  followed  these  words.  Eleanor 
felt  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  broken  at  her  feet ;  so  tern- 
7* 


154  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

ble  to  her,  in  her  own  mood,  was  this  revelation  of 
kindred  feeling.  She  stood  by  the  bedside,  dismayed, 
shocked,  a  little  disposed  to  echo  Jane's  despairing 
prophecy  in  her  own  case. 

"  Did  he  say  no  more  to  you.  Jane  ?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Eleanor,  he  did ;  and  every  word  he  said 
made  me  feel  worser.  His  two  eyes  was  like  two  swords 
going  through  me ;  and  they  went  through  me  so  softly, 
ma'am,  I  couldn't  abear  it.  They  killed  me." 

"  But,  Jane,  he  did  not  mean  to  kilt  you.  What  did 
he  say  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Miss  Eleanor — he  said  a  many  things  ; 
but  they  only  made  me  feel how  I  ain't  fit " 

There  was  no  more  talking.  The  words  were  broken 
off  by  sobs.  Eleanor  turned  aside  to  the  fire-place  and 
began  to  make  up  the  fire,  in  a  blank  confusion  and  dis 
tress  ;  feeling,  to  use  an  Arabic  phrase,  as  if  the  sky  had 
fallen.  She  could  give  no  comfort ;  she  wanted  it  her 
self.  The  best  she  could  think  of,  was  the  suggestion 
that  the  gentleman  would  come  again,  and  that  then  he 
would  make  all  things  plain.  Would  he  come  while 
Eleanor  was  there,  that  afternoon?  What  a  chance! 
But  she  remembered  it  was  very  unlikely.  He  was  to 
preach  in  the  evening ;  he  would  want  to  keep  all  his 
strength  for  that.  And  now  the  question  arose,  how 
should  she  get  to  the  barn. 

The  first  thing  was  to  soothe  Jane.  Eleanor  succeed 
ed  in  doing  that  after  a  while.  She  made  her  a  cup  of 
tea  and  a  piece  of  toast,  and  took  some  herself;  and  sat 
in  the  darkening  light  musing  how  she  should  do.  One 
good  thing  was  secure.  She  had  not  been  followed  up 
this  afternoon,  nor  sent  for  home  ;  both  which  disagreea 
bles  she  had  feai'ed.  Jane  dozed,  and  she  thought;  and 
the  twilight  fell  deeper  and  deeper. 

There  was  after  all  only  one  way  in  which  Eleanor 
could  accomplish  her  desire ;  though  she  turned  the 


IN     THE    BARN.  155 

matter  all  round  in  her  head  before  she  would  see  it,  or 
determine  upon  adopting  it.  No  mortal  that  she  knew 
could  be  trusted  with  4he  secret — if  she  meant  to  have 
it  remain  a  secret :  and  that  at  all  «osts  was  Eleanor's 
desire.  Julia  might  have  been  trusted,  but  Julia  could 
not  have  been  brought  along.  Eleanor  was  alone.  She 
thought,  and  trembled,  and  made  up  her  mind. 

The  hour  must  be  waited  for  when  people  from  the  vil 
lage  would  be  setting  forth  to  go  to  Brooks'  farm.  It  was 
dark  then,  except  some  light  from  the  stars.  Eleanor  got 
out  a  bonnet  of  Jane's,  which  the  owner  would  never  use 
again  ;  a  close  little  straw  bonnet ;  and  tied  over  it  a 
veil  she  had  taken  the  precaution  to  bring.  Her  own 
flat  and  mantle  she  laid  away  out  of  sight,  and  wrapped 
round  her  instead  a  thick  camlet  cloak  of  the  sick  girl's, 
which  enveloped  her  from  head  to  feet.  Pretty  good 
disguise — thought  Eleanor  to  herself.  Mr.  Carlisle 
would  not  find  her  out  in  this.  But  there  was  no 
danger  of  his  seeing  her.  She  was  all  ready  to  steal 
out ;  when  she  suddenly  recollected  that  she  might  be 
missed,  and  the  old  people  in  terror  make  a  hue  and  cry 
after  her.  That  would  not  do.  She  stripped  off  the 
bonnet  again  and  awoke  the  sleeping  girl. 

"  Jane,"  she  said  bending  over  her,  "  I  have  somebody 
else  to  see — I  am  going  out  for  a  little  while.  I  will  be 
back  and  spend  the  night  with  you.  Tell  your  mother 
to  leave  the  door  open  for  me,  if  she  wishes  to  go  to 
bed  ;  and  I  will  look  after  you.  Now  go  to  sleep  again." 

Without  waiting  for  Jane  to  think  about  it,  Eleanor 
slipped  out,  bonnet  in  hand,  and  went  softly  down  stairs. 
The  old  man  was  already  gone  to  bed  in  a  little  inner 
chamber  ;  the  old  mother  sat  dozing  by  the  fire.  Stand 
ing  behind  her  Eleanor  put  on  the  bonnet,  and  then 
gently  opening  the  house  door,  with  one  step  was  in  the 
road.  A  moment  stood  still ;  but  the  next  moment  set 
off  with  quick,  hasty  steps. 


156  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

It  was  damp  and  dark ;  the  stars  were  shining  indeed, 
yet  they  shed  but  a  glimmering  and  doubtful  light  upon 
Eleanor's  doubtful  proceeding.  She  knew  it  was  such  ; 
her  feet  trembled  and  stumbled  in  her  way,  though  that 
was  as  much  with  the  fever  of  determination  as  with  the 
hinderings  of  doubt.  There  was  little  occasion  for 
bodily  fear.  People,  she  knew,  would  be  going  to  the 
preaching,  all  along  the  way ;  she  would  not  be  alone 
either  going  or  coming.  Nevei'theless  it  was  dark,  and 
she  was  where  she  had  no  business  to  be  ;  and  she  hur 
ried  along  rather  nervously  till  she  caught  sight  of  one 
or  two  groups  before  her,  evidently  bent  for  the  same 
place  with  herself.  She  slackened  her  footsteps  then,  so 
as  to  keep  at  a  proper  distance  behind  them,  and  felt 
that  for  the  present  she  was  secure.  Yet,  it  was  a  wild, 
strange  walk  to  Eleanor.  Secure  from  personal  harm 
she  might  be,  and  was,  no  doubt ;  but  who  could  say 
what  moral  consequences  might  follow  her  proceed 
ing.  What  if  her  mother  knew  it  ?  Avhat  if  Mr.  Car 
lisle  ?  Eleanor  felt  she  was  doing  a  very  questionable 
thing ;  but  the  desire  to  do  it  on  her  part  amounted 
to  a  necessity.  She  must  hear  these  words  that  would 
be  spoken  in  the  barn  to-night.  They  Avould  be  on  the 
subject  that  of  all  others  interested  her,  and  spoken  by 
the  lips  that  of  all  others  could  alone  speak  to  the  pur 
pose.  So  Eleanor  felt ;  so  was  in  some  measure  for  her 
the  truth ;  and  amid  all  her  sense  of  doubt  and  danger 
and  inward  trembling,  there  was  a  wild  thrill  of  delight 
at  accomplishing  her  object.  She  would  hear — yes,  she 
would  hear — what  Mr.  Rhys  had  to  say  to  the  people 
that  night.  Nobody  should  ever  know  it ;  neither  he 
nor  others ;  but  if  they  did,  she  would  run  all  risks 
rather  than  be  balked. 

It  was  a  walk  never  to  be  forgotten.  Alone,  though 
near  people  that  knew  not  she  was  near ;  in  the  darkness 
of  night ;  the  stars  shewing  only  the  black  forms  of  tree? 


IN     THE     BARN.  157 

and  hedgerows,  and  a  line  of  what  could  not  be  called 
light,  where  the  road  ran ;  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the 
hedge  and  hurrying  along  over  the  undiscerned  footway; 
— it  was  a  novel  experience  for  one  who  had  been  all  her 
life  so  tended  and  sheltered  as  she.  It  Avas  strange  and 
disagreeable.  Waymarks  did  not  seem  familiar ;  dis 
tances  seemed  long.  Eleanor  wished  the  walk  would 
come  to  an  end. 

It  did  at  last.  The  people, — there  was  a  stream  of 
them  now  pouring  along  the  road,  indeed  so  many  that 
Eleanor  was  greatly  surprised  at  them, — turned  off  into 
a  field,  within  which  at  a  fe\v  rods  from  the  road  stood 
the  barn  in  question  ;  at  the  door  of  which  one  or  two 
lamps  hung  out  shewed  that  something  unusual  was 
going  on  there.  Mr.  Brooks  had  several  barns,  the 
gables  and  roofs  of  which  looked  like  a  little  settlement 
in  the  starlight,  not  far  off;  but  this  particular  barn  stood 
alone,  and  was  probably  known  to  the  country  people 
from  former  occasions ;  for  they  streamed  towards  it  and 
filed  in  without  any  wavering  or  question.  So  Eleanor 
followed,  trembling  and  wondering  at  herself;  passed 
the  curtain  that  hung  at  the  door,  and  went  in  with  the 
others. 

The  place  that  received  them  was  a  great  threshing- 
floor,  of  noble  proportions,  for  a  threshing-floor.  Per 
haps  Mr.  Brooks  had  an  eye  to  contingencies  when  he 
built  it.  On  two  sides  it  was  lined  with  grain,  rising  in 
walls  of  cereal  sweetness  to  a  great  height ;  and  certain 
ly,  if  Eleanor  had  been  in  many  a  statelier  church,  she 
had  never  been  in  one  better  ventilated  or  where  the  air 
was  more  fragrantly  scented.  But  a  new  doubt  struck 
her.  Could  it  be  right  to  hold  divine  service  in  such  a 
place  ?  Was  this  a  fit  or  decorous  temple,  for  uses  of 
such  high  and  awful  dignity  ?  The  floor  was  a  bare  plank 
floor  ;  footfalls  echoed  over  it.  The  roof  was  high  in 
deed  ;  but  no  architect's  groining  of  beams  reminded  one 


158  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

that  the  place  was  set  apart  to  noble  if  not  sacred  pur- 
poses.  Nothing  but  common  carpenter's  joinery  waa 
over  her  head,  in  the  roof  of  the  barn.  The  heads  of 
wheat  ears  instead  of  carved  cornices  and  pendents ;  and 
if  the  lights  Avere  dim,  which  they  certainly  were,  it  did 
not  seem  at  all  a  religious  light.  Only  at  the  further  end, 
where  a  table  and  chair  stood  ready  for  the  preacher, 
some  tall  wax  candles  threw  a  sufficient  illumination  for 
all  present  to  see  him  well.  Was  that  his  pulpit  ?  What 
sort  of  preaching  could  possibly  be  had  from  it  ? 

Eleanor  looked  round  the  place.  There  was  no  really 
lighted  part  of  it  except  about  that  table  and  chair.  It 
was  impossible  for  people  to  see  each  other  well  from  a 
little  distance  off,  unless  thoroughly  well  known. 

Eleanor  felt  there  was  very  little  danger  indeed  that 
anybody  should  recognize  her  identity,  in  Jane's  bonnet 
and  cloak.  That  was  so  much  comfort.  Another  com 
fort  was,  that  the  night  was  mild.  It  was  not  like  No 
vember.  A  happy  circumstance  for  everybody  there ; 
but  most  of  all  for  the  convalescent  preacher,  whose  ap 
pearance  Eleanor  looked  for  now  with  a  kind  of  fearful 
anxiety.  If  he  should  have  been  hindered  from  coming, 
after  all !  Her  heart  beat  hard.  She  stood  far  back  be 
hind  most  of  the  people,  near  the  door  by  which  she  had 
entered.  A  few  benches  and  chairs  were  in  the  floor, 
given  up  to  the  use  of  the  women  and  the  aged  people. 
Eleanor  marvelled  much  to  see  that  there  were  some 
quite  old  people  among  the  company.  The  barn  was 
getting  very  full. 

"  There  is  a  seat  yonder,"  said  some  one  touching  her 
on  the  elbow.  "  Won't  you  have  it  ?" 

Eleanor  shook  her  head. 

"  You  had  better,"  he  said  kindly  ;  "  there's  a  seat 
with  nobody  in  it ;  there's  plenty  of  room  up  there. 
Come  this  way." 

Eleanor  was  unwilling  to  go  further  forward,  yet  did 


IN     THE     BARN.  159 

not  like  to  trust  her  voice  to  speak,  nor  choose  to  draw 
attention  to  herself  in  any  way.  She  was  needlessly 
afraid.  However,  she  yielded  to  the  instance  of  her  kind 
neighbour  and  followed  him  among  the  crowd  to  the  spot 
he  had  picked  out  for  her.  She  would  have  resisted  fur 
ther,  if  she  had  known  where  this  spot  was  ;  for  it  was 
far  forward  in  the  barn,  more  than  half  way  between 
the  door  and  the  candle-lighted  table,  and  in  the  very 
midst  of  the  assembly.  There  was  no  help  for  it  now  ; 
she  could  not  go  back ;  and  Eleanor  was  thankful  for 
the  support  the  seat  gave  her.  She  was  trembling  all 
over.  A  vague  queer  feeling  of  her  being  about  some 
thing  wrong,  not  merely  in  the  circumstances  of  her  get 
ting  there,  but  in  the  occasion  itself,  haunted  her  with  a 
sort  of  superstition.  Could  such  an  assembly  be  right 
fully  gathered  for  siich  a  purpose  in  such  a  place  ?  Could 
it  be  right,  to  speak  publicly  of  sacred  things  with 
such  an  absence  of  any  public  recognition  of  their  sacred- 
ness  ?  In  a  bare  barn  ?  an  unconsecrated  building,  with 
no  beauty  or  dignity  of  observance  to  give  homage  to 
the  work  and  the  occasion  ?  Eleanor  was  a  compound  of 
strange  feelings  ;  till  she  suddenly  became  conscious  of 
a  stir  in  the  gathered  throng,  and  then  heard  on  the  plank 
floor  a  step  that  she  intuitively  knew.  As  the  step  and 
the  tall  figure  that  it  bore  passed  close  by  her  on  the  way 
to  the  table,  an  instant  sense  of  quiet  and  security  settled 
down  on  her.  Nervousness  died  away.  There  was  one 
person  there  now  that  she  knew  ;  the  question  of  his  com 
ing  was  settled,  and  her  coming  was  not  for  nothing ;  and 
moreover,  whatever  business  he  was  concerned  in  was 
Vight,  in  all  its  parts !  She  was  sure  of  that.  She  watched 
him,  with  a  great  bound  of  exultation  in  her  heart ; 
watched  him  kneel  down  for  prayer  as  he  reached  his 
place  ;  and  wondered,  while  aAve  mixed  with  her  wonder, 
how  he  could  do  it,  before  and  amongst  all  those  people 
as  he  was ;  not  shut  off  in  a  distant  chancel  alone  by 


160  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

himself,  but  there  with  everybody  crowding  upon  him. 
Her  wonder  had  but  little  space  to  exercise  itself.  After 
a  few  minutes  Mr.  Rhys  rose  and  gave  out  a  hymn  ; 
and  every  thought  of  Eleanor's  was  concentrated  on  the 
business  and  on  the  speaker. 

She  knew  nothing  about  hymns  except  that  they  were 
sung  in  church  ;  all  such  lyrics  were  unfamiliar  to  her, 
though  the  music  of  them  was  not.  It  was  always  state 
ly  music,  with  an  organ,  in  the  swell  of  which  the  words 
were  lost.  There  could  be  no  organ  in  a  barn.  Instead 
of  that,  the  whole  assembly  rose  to  their  feet  and  struck 
out  together  into  a  sweet  air  which  they  sung  with  a 
vast  deal  of  spirit.  No  difficulty  about  hearing  the 
words  now  ;  the  music  was  not  at  a  distance ;  the  words 
were  coming  from  every  lip  near  Eleanor,  and  were  sung 
as  if  they  were  a  personal  matter.  Perhaps  she  was 
in  a  mood  to  be  easily  touched ;  but  the  singing  did 
reach  her  and  move  her  profoundly. 

"  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear 

To  mansions  in  the  skies, 
I'll  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 
And  -wipe  my  weeping  eyes." 

The  sense  of  this,  Eleanor  did  not  thoroughly  under 
stand,  yet  the  general  spirit  of  it  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 
And  the  soft  repetition  of  the  last  line  struck  her  heart 
sorrowfully.  Here  was  her  want  breathed  out  again. 
"  And  wipe  my  weeping  eyes. — I'll  bid  farewell  to  every 
fear,  and  wipe  my  weeping  eyes."  Eleanor  was  perhaps 
the  only  one  who  did  not  sing  ;  nobody  paid  better  at 
tention. 

The  hymn  was  followed  by  a  prayer.  If  the  one  had 
touched  Eleanor,  the  other  prostrated  her  in  the  dust. 
She  heard  a  child  of  God  speaking  to  his  Father  ;  with 
a  simplicity  of  utterance,  a  freedom  of  access,  and  a  glow 
of  happy  affections,  evident  in  every  quietly  spoken 


IN     THE     BAKN.  161 

word,  that  testified  to  his  possession  of  the  heavenly  trea 
sures  that  were  on  his  tongue ;  and  made  Eleanor  feel  hum 
bled  and  poor  with  an  extreme  and  bitter  sense  of  want. 
Her  heart  felt  as  empty  as  a  deep  well  that  had  gone  dry. 
This  man  only  had  ever  shewed  her  what  a  Christian 
might  be  ;  she  saw  him  standing  in  a  glory  of  heavenly 
relationships  and  privileges  and  character,  that  were  a 
sort  of  transfiguration.  And  although  Eleanor  compre 
hended  but  very  imperfectly  wherein  this  glory  might 
lie,  she  yet  saw  the  light,  and  mourned  her  own  darkness. 
Eleanor's  mind  went  a  great  way  during  the  minutes  of 
that  prayer  ;  according  to  the  strange  fashion  in  which 
the  work  of  many  days  is  sometimes  done  in  one.  She 
was  sorry  when  it  ended  ;  however,  evei'y  part  of  the 
services  had  a  vivid  new  interest  for  her.  Another 
hymn,  and  reading,  during  which  her  head  was  bowed 
on  her  breast  in  still  listening ;  it  was  curious,  how  she 
had  forgot  all  about  being  in  a  barn  ;  and  then  the  ser 
mon  began.  She  had  to  raise  up  her  head  when  that 
began  ;  and  after  a  while  Eleanor  could  not  bear  her  veil, 
and  threw  it  back,  trusting  that  the  dim  light  would  se 
cure  her  from  being  known.  But  she  felt  that  she  must 
see  as  well  as  hear,  this  one  time. 

Of  all  subjects  in  the  world  to  fall  in  with  Eleanor's 
mood,  the  sermon  to-night  was  on  peace.  The  peace 
that  the  Lord  Jesus  left  as  his  parting  gift  to  his  peo 
ple  ;  the  peace  that  is  not  as  the  world  giveth.  How  the 
world  gives,  Mr.  Rhys  briefly  set  forth  ; — with  one  hand, 
to  take  away  with  the  other — as  a  handful  of  gold,  what 
proves  but  a  clutch  of  ashes — as  the  will-o'-the-wisp 
gives,  promise  but  never  possession.  Eleanor  would  not 
have  much  regarded  these  words  from  any  other  lips ; 
they  accorded  with  her  old  theory  of  disgust  with  the 
world.  From  Mr.  Rhys  she  did  regard  them,  because 
no  word  of  his  fell  unheeded  by  her.  But  when  he 
went  on  from  that  to  speak  of  Christ's  gift,  and  how 


162  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

that  is  bestowed — his  speech  was  as  bitter  in  her  heart 
as  it  was  sweet  in  his  mouth.  The  peace  he  held  up  to 
her  view, — the  joy  in  which  a  child  of  God  lives  and 
walks — and  dies ;  the  security  of  every  movement,  the 
confidence  in  every  action,  the  rest  in  all  turmoil,  the 
fearlessness  in  all  danger;  the  riches  in  the  midst  of 
poverty,  the  rejoicing  even  in  time  of  sorrow ;  the  vic 
tory  over  sin  and  death,  wrought  in  him  as  well  as  for 
him ; — Eleanor's  heart  seemed  to  die  Avithin  her,  and  at 
the  same  time  started  in  a  struggle  for  life.  Had  the 
words  been  said  coldly,  or  as  matter  of  speculative  be 
lief,  or  as  privilege  not  actually  entered  into,  it  would 
have  been  a  different  thing.  Eleanor  might  have  sat 
back  in  her  chair  and  listened  and  sorrowed  for  herself 
in  outward  quiet.  But  there  was  unconscious  testimony 
from  every  tone  and  look  of  the  speaker  that  he  told  the 
people  but  of  what  he  knew.  The  pale  face  was  illum 
ined  by  a  high  grave  light,  that  looked  like  a  halo  from 
the  unseen  world ;  it  was  nothing  less  to  Eleanor ;  and 
the  mouth  in  its  general  set  so  sober,  broke  occasionally 
into  a  smile  so  sweet,  that  it  straitened  Eleanor's  heart 
with  its  unconscious  tale-telling.  As  the  time  went  on, 
the  speaker  began  to  illustrate  his  words  by  instances ; 
instances  of  the  peace  which  Christians  have  shewn  to 
be  theirs  in  all  sorts  of  circumstances  where  the  world 
would  have  given  them  none,  or  would  have  surely  Avith- 
drawn  the  gift  once  made.  In  poverty — in  pain — in 
loneliness — in  the  want  of  all  things — in  the  close  pros 
pect  of  suffering,  and  in  the  presence  of  death.  Won 
derful  instances  they  were !  glorious  to  the  power  of 
that  Redeemer,  who  had  declared,  "  Not  as  the  world 
giveth,  give  I  unto  you.  In  the  world  ye  shall  have 
tribulation ;  but  be  of  good  cheer ;  I  have  overcome  the 
world."  How  the  speaker's  eye  flushed  and  fired ; 
flushed  with  tears,  and  fired  with  triumph ;  what  a  tint 
rose  on  the  pale  cheek,  testifying  to  the  exultation  he 


IX     T  II  K     K  A  K  N  .  163 

felt ;  with  what  tremulous  distinctness  the  words  were 
sometimes  given — and  heard  in  the  breathless  stillness  to 
the  furthest  comer  of  the  place.  It  was  too  much  at 
la&t.  Feeling  was  wrought  too  high.  Eleanor  could 
not  bear  it.  She  bowed  her  head  on  her  hand  to  hide 
the  tears  that  Avould  come,  and  only  struggled  to  keep 
her  sobs  quiet  that  she  might  not  lose  a  word.  There 
were  other  sobs  in  the  assembly  that  were  less  well  con 
trolled  ;  they  were  audible ;  Eleanor  could  not  endure  to 
hear  them,  for  she  feared  her  excitement  would  become 
unmanageable.  Nevertheless  by  strong  effort  she  suc 
ceeded  in  keeping  perfectly  still ;  though  she  dared  not 
raise  her  head  again  till  the  last  hymn  and  prayers  Avere 
over,  and  the  people  made  a  general  stir  all  round  her. 
Then  she  too  rose  up  and  turned  her  face  in  the  direction 
whither  they  were  all  turning,  towards  the  door.  • 

She  made  her  way  out  with  the  crowd  blindly,  con 
scious  that  it  was  all  over — that  was  the  prominent 
thought — and  yet  that  work  was  done  which  would 
never  be  "  over  "  for  her.  So  conscious  of  this,  that  she 
had  no  care  either  of  her  whereabouts  or  of  her  walk 
home,  except  in  an  incidental  sort  of  way.  She  got  out 
into  the  starlight,  and  stepped  over  the  grassy  sward  of 
the  field  in  a  maze ;  she  hardly  felt  the  ground  ;  it  was 
not  till  she  reached  the  fence  and  found  herself  in  the 
road,  that  Eleanor  really  roused  up.  Then  it  was  neces 
sary  to  turn  in  one  direction  or  the  other ;  and  Eleanor 
could  not  tell  which  to  take.  She  stood  still  and  tried 
to  collect  herself.  Which  side  of  the  road  was  the  barn  ? 
She  could  not  remember;  she  was  completely  confused 
and  turned  about ;  and  jn  the  starlight  she  could  be  sure 
of  no  tree  or  fence  or  other  landmark.  She  stood  still, 
while  the  people  poured  past  her  and  in  groups  or  in 
pairs  took  the  one  direction  or  the  opposite.  Part  went 
one  way  and  part  went  the  other,  to  Wiglands  and  to 
Rythdale.  Eleanor  longed  to  ask  which  way  somebody 


164  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

was  going,  but  she  was  afraid  of  betraying  herself.  She 
did  not  dare.  Yet  if  she  took  the  wrong  turning,  she 
might  find  herself  in  the  Rythdale  valley,  a  great  dis 
tance  from  Wiglands,  and  with  a  lone  road  to  traverse 
all  the  way  back  again.  Her  heart  beat.  What  should 
she  do  ?  The  people  poured  past  her,  dividing  oif  right 
and  left ;  they  would  be  all  scattered  soon  to  their  sev 
eral  homes,  and  she  would  be  left  alone.  She  must  do 
something  quickly.  Yet  she  shrank  very  much  from 
speaking,  and  still  stood  by  the  fence  trembling  and 
hesitating. 

"  Are  you  alone  ?"  said  a  voice  at  her  shoulder  that 
she  knew  very  well.  If  a  cannon  had  gone  off  at  her 
feet,  it  would  not  have  startled  Eleanor  more.  The  tone 
of  the  question  implied  that  she  was  known.  She  was 
too  startled  to  answer.  The  words  Avere  repeated. 
"  Are  you  alone  ?" 

Eleanor's  "  yes  "  got  out,  with  nothing  distinguishable 
except  the  last  letter. 

"  I  have  a  waggon  here,"  said  he.     "  Come  with  me." 

The  speaker  waited  for  no  answer  to  the  words  which 
were  not  a  request ;  and  acting  as  decidedly  as  he  had 
spoken,  took  hold  of  Eleanor's  arm  and  led  her  forward 
to  a  little  vehicle  which  had  just  drawn  up.  He  helped 
her  into  it,  took  his  place  beside  her,  and  drove  away ; 
but  he  said  not  another  word. 

It  was  Mr.  Rhys,  and  Eleanor  knew  that  he  had  rec 
ognized  her.  She  sat  in  a  stupor  of  confusion  and 
shame.  What  would  he  think  of  her !  and  what  could 
she  make  him  think  ?  Must  she  be  a  bold,  wild  girl  in 
his  estimation  for  ever?  Why. would  he  not  speak? 
He  drove  on  in  perfect  silence.  Eleanor  must  say  some 
thing  to  break  it.  And  it  was  extremely  difficult,  and 
she  had  to  be  bold  to  do  that. 

"  I  see  you  recognize  me,  Mr.  Rhys,"  she  said. 

"  I  recognized  you  in  the  meeting,"  he  answered  in 


IN      THE      B  A  R  X.  165 

perfect  gravity.  Eleanor  felt  it.  She  was  checked.  She 
was  punished. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?"  she  asked  after  a  little 
more  time. 

"  I  will  take  you  wherever  you  tell  me  you  desire." 

Grave  and  short.     Eleanor  could  not  bear  it. 

"  You  think  very  hardly  of  me,  Mr.  Rhys,"  she  said  ; 
"  but  I  was  spending  the  night  at  a  poor  girl's  house  in 
the  village — she  is  ill,  and  I  was  going  to  sit  up  with  her — 
and  I  knew  you  were  to  preach  at  that  place — and — " 
Eleanor's  voice  choked  and  faltered. 

"And  what  could  prompt  you  to  go  alone,  Miss 
Powle  ?» 

"  I  wanted  to  go — "  faltered  Eleanor.  "  I  knew  it 
would  be  my  last  chance.  I  felt  I  must  go.  And  I 
could  go  no  way  but  alone." 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  mean  by  '  your  last  chance  ?' " 

"  My  last  chance  of  hearing  what  I  wanted  to  hear — 
what  I  can't  help  thinking  about  lately.  Mr.  Rhys,  I 
am  not  happy." 

"  Did  you  understand  what  you  heard  to-night?" 

"  In  part  I  did — I  understood,  Mr.  Rhys,  that  you 
have  something  I  have  not, — and  that  I  want."  Eleanor 
spoke  with  great  emotion. 

"  The  Lord  bless  you  !"  he  said,  with  a  tenderness  of 
tone  that  broke  her  down  at  once.  "  Trust  Jesus,  Miss 
Powle.  He  can  give  it  to  you.  He  only  can.  Go  to 
him  for  what  you  want,  and  for  understanding  of  what 
you  do  not  understand.  Trust  the  Lord  !  Make  your 
requests  known  to  him,  and  believe  that  he  will  hear 
your  prayers  and  answer  them,  and  more  than  fulfil 
them.  Now  where  shall  I  set  you  down  ?" 

"  Anywhere — "  Eleanor  said  as  well  as  she  could. 
"  Here,  if  you  please." 

"Here  is  no  house.  We  are  just  at  the  entrance  of 
the  village." 


ICG  r  n  is    o  L  D    ii  E  i,  M  K  T  . 

"  This  is  a  good  place  then,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  do 
not  want  anybody  to  see  me." 

"  Miss  Powle,"  said  her  guardian,  and  he  spoke  with 
such  extreme  gravity  that  Eleanor  was  half  fright 
ened, — "  did  you  come  without  the  knowledge  of  your 
friends  at  home  ?" 

"Yes,  to  the  place  we  have  come  from.  Mamma 
knew  I  was  going  to  spend  the  night  with  a  sick  girl  in 
the  village — she  did  not  know  any  more." 

"  It  was  very  dangerous  !"  he  said  in  the  same  tone. 

"  I  knew  it.     I  risked  that.     I  felt  I  must  come." 

"  You  did  very  wrong,"  said  her  companion.  It  hurt 
her  that  he  should  say  it,  and  have  cause  ;  but  she  was 
so  miserable  before,  that  it  could  be  felt  only  in  the  dull 
way  in  which  pain  added  to  pain  sometimes  makes  itself 
known.  She  was  subdued,  humbled,  ashamed.  She 
said  nothing  more,  nor  did  he,  until  after  passing  two  or 
three  houses  they  arrived  at  a  spot  where  the  trees  and 
the  road  were  the  only  village  representatives ;  a  clear 
space,  with  no  house  very  near,  and  no  person  in  sight. 
Mr.  Rhys  drew  up  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  helped 
Eleanor  out  of  the  waggon.  He  said  only  "  Good  night," 
but  it  was  said  kindly  and  sympathizingly,  and  with  the 
earnest  grasp  of  the  hand  that  Eleanor  remembered.  He 
got  into  the  waggon  again,  but  did  not  drive  away  as 
she  expected  ;  she  found  he  was  walking  his  horse  and 
keeping  abreast  of  her  as  she  walked.  Eleanor  hurried 
on,  reached  Mrs.  Lewis's  cottage,  paused  a  second  at  the 
door  to  let  him  see  that  she  had  reached  her  stopping 
place,  and  went  in. 

All  still ;  the  embers  dying  on  the  hearth,  a  cricket 
chirr upping  under  it.  Mrs.  Lewis  was  gone  to  bed,  but 
had  not  covered  up  the  fire  for  fear  her  young  lady 
might  want  it.  Eleanor  did  not  dare  sit  down  there, 
She  drew  the  bolt  of  the  house  door ;  then  softly  went 
up  the  stairs  to  Jane's  room.  Jane  was  asleep.  Eleanor 


IN     THE     BAKN  167 

felt  thankful,  and  moved  about  like  a  shadow.  She  put 
the  brands  together  in  a  sort  of  mechanical  way ;  for 
she  knew  she  was 'chilly  and  needed  fire  bodily,  though 
her  spirit  was  in  a  fever.  The  night  had  turned  raw, 
and  the  ride  home  had  been  not  so  cheering  mentally  as 
to  do  away  with  the  physical  influence  of  a  cold  fog. 
Eleanor  put  off  bonnet  and  cloak,  softly  piled  the  brands 
together  and  coaxed  up  a  flame ;  and  sat  down  on  a 
low  stool  on  the  hearth  to  spread  her  hands  over  it,  to 
catch  all  the  comfort  she  could. 

Comfort  was  not  near,  however.  Jane  waked  up  in  a 
violent  fit  of  coughing  ;  and  when  that  was  subdued  or 

o          o  / 

died  away,  as  difficult  a  fit  of  restlessness  was  left  be 
hind.  She  was  nervous  and  uneasy  ;  Eleanor  had  only 
too  much  sympathy  with  both  moods,  nevertheless  she 
acted  the  part  of  a  kind  and  delicate  nurse ;  soothed 
Jane  and  ministered  to  her,  even  spoke  cheerful  words ; 
until  the  poor  girl's  exhausted  mind  and  body  sank  away 
again  into  slumber,  and  Eleanor  was  free  to  sit  down  on 
the  hearth  and  fold  her  hands. 

Then  she  began  to  think.  Not  till  then.  Indeed 
what  she  did  then  at  first  was  not  to  think,  but  to  recall 
in  musing  all  the  scenes  and  as  far  as  possible  all  the 
words  of  that  evening ;  with  a  consciousness  behind  this 
all  the  while  that  there  was  hard  thinking  coming. 
Eleanor  went  dreamily  over  the  last  few  hours,  looking 
in  turn  at  each  image  so  stamped  upon  her  memory ;  felt 
over  again  the  sermon,  the  hymns,  the  prayers;  then 
suddenly  broke  from  her  musings  to  face  this  conscious 
ness  that  was  menacing  her.  Set  herself  to  think  in 
earnest. 

What  was  it  all  about  ?  Eleanor  might  well  have 
shunned  it,  might  well  grasp  it  in  desperation  with  a 
sudden  inability  to  put  it  off  any  longer.  Down  in  her 
heart,  as  strong  as  the  keep  of  an  old  castle,  and  as  ob 
stinate-looking,  was  the  feeling — "  I  do  not  want  to 


168  T  EI  E      O  I,  D      II  K  L  M  E  T  . 

marry  Mr.  Carlisle."  Eleanor  did  not  immediately  dis 
cern  its  full  outline  and  proportions,  in  the  dim  confu 
sion  which  filled  her  heart ;  but  a  little  steady  looking 
revealed  it,  revealed  it  firm  and  clear  and  established 
there.  "  I  do  not  want  to  marry  him — I  will  not  marry 
him" — she  found  the  words  surging  up  from  this  strong 
hold.  Pride  and  ambition  cowering  somewhere  said, 
"  Not  ever  ?  Do  you  mean,  not  at  all  ?  not  ever  ?'' — 
"  Not  ever !" — was  the  uncompromising  answer  ;  and 
Eleanor's  head  dropped  in  agony.  "  Why  ?"  was  the 
next  question.  And  the  answer  was  clear  and  strong 
and  ready.  "  I  am  bent  upon  another  sort  of  life  than  his 
life — I  am  going  another  way — I  must  live  for  aims  and 
objects  which  he  will  hate  and  thwart  and  maybe  hinder 
— I  will  not  walk  with  him  in  his  way — I  cannot  walk 
with  him  in  mine — I  cannot,  oh,  I  do  not  Avish,  to  walk 
with  him  at  all !"  Eleanor  sat  face  to  face  with  this 
blank  consciousness,  staring  at  it,  and  feeling  as  if  the 
life  was  gradually  ebbing  out  of  her.  What  was  she  to 
do  ?  The  different  life  and  temper  and  character,  and 
even  the  face,  of  Mr.  Rhys,  came  up  to  her  as  so  much 
nobler,  so  much  better,  so  much  more  what  a  man  should 
be,  so  much  more  worthy  of  being  liked.  But  Eleanor 
strove  to  put  that  image  away,  as  having  very  truly  she 
said  to  herself,  nothing  to  do  with  the  present  question. 
However  she  thought  she  could  not  marry  Mr.  Carlisle ; 
and  intrenched  herself  a  little  while  in  that  position, 
until  the  next  subject  came  up  for  consideration ;  how 
she  could  escape  from  it  ?  What  reason  could  be  as 
signed  ?  Only  this  religious  one  could  be  given — and 
it  might  be,  it  might  well  be,  that  Mr.  Carlisle  would 
not  on  his  part  consider  that  reason  enough.  He  would 
certainly  hope  to  overcome  the  foundation  on  which  it 
stood ;  and  if  he  could  not,  Eleanor  was  obliged  to  con 
fess  to  herself  that  she  believed  he  loved  her  to  that  degree 
that  he  would  rather  have  her  a  religious  wife  than  not  his 


IN     THE     B  A  EN.  160 

wife  at  all.  What  should  Eleanor  do  ?  Was  she  not 
bound  ?  had  she  not  herself  given  him  claims  over  her 
which  she  had  no  right  to  disallow  ?  had  he  not  a  right 
to  all  her  fulfilment  of  them  ?  Eleanor  did  not  love 
him  as  he  loved  her ;  she  saw  that  with  singular  and 
sudden  distinctness  ;  but  there  again,  when  she  thought 
of  that  as  a  reason  for  not  fulfilling  her  contract,  she  was 
obliged  to  own  that  it  would  be  no  reason  to  Mr.  Car 
lisle.  He  never  had  had  ground  to  suppose  that  Eleanor 
gave  him  more  than  she  had  expressed  ;  but  he  was  en 
tirely  content  with  what  he  had  and  his  own  confidence 
that  he  could  cultivate  it  into  what  he  pleased.  There 
was  no  shaking  loose  from  him  in  that  way.  As  Eleanor 
sat  on  the  hearth  and  looked  at  the  ashes,  in  reality  look 
ing  at  Mr.  Carlisle,  her  own  face  grew  wan  at  what  she 
saw  there.  She  could  give  him  no  reason  for  changing  . 
their  relations  to  each  other,  that  would  make  him  hold 
her  a  bit  the  less  closely,  no,  nor  the  less  fondly.  What 
could. Eleanor  do  ?  To  go  on  and  be  Mr.  Carlisle's  wife, 
if  necessary ;  give  him  all  the  observance  and  regard 
that  she  could,  that  she  owed  him,  for  having  put  her 
self  in  a  false  position  where  she  could  not  give  him 
more  ; — Eleanor  saw  nothing  else  before  her.  But  one 
thing  beside  she  would  do.  She  would  make  Mr.  Carlisle 
clearly  and  fully  understand  what  sort  of  a  woman  he 
must  expect  in  her.  She  would  explain  thoroughly 
what  sort  of  a  life  she  meant  to  lead.  Justly  stated, 
Avhat  would  that  be  ? 

Eleanor  thought ;  and  found  lierself  determined,  heart 
and  soul,  to  follow  the  path  of  life  laid  before  her  that 
evening.  Whether  "  peace"  could  visit  her,  in  the  course 
that  seemed  to  lie  through  her  future  prospects,  Eleanor 
much  doubted  ;  but  at  any  rate  she  would  have  the  rest 
of  a  satisfied  conscience.  She  would  take  the  Bible  for 
her  rule.  Mr.  Rhys's  God  should  be  her  God,  and  with 
all  she  had  of  power  and  ability  she  would  serve  him. 


170  THE      OLD     HELMET. 

Dim.  as  religious  things  still  were  to  her  vision,  one  thing 
was  not  dim,  but  shiningly  clear ;  the  duty  of  every 
creature  to  live  the  devoted  servant  of  that  Lord  to 
whom  he  belongs  by  creation  and  redemption  both. 
Here  Eleanor's  heart  fixed,  if  it  had  a  fixed  point  that 
tumultuous  night ;  but  long  before  it  settled  anywhere 
her  thoughts  were  bathed  in  bitter  tears  ;  in  floods  of 
weeping  that  seemed  fit  to  wash  her  very  heart  away. 
It  occurred  to  Eleanor,  if  they  could,  how  much  trouble 
would  be  saved !  She  saw  plenty  before  her.  But 
thqre  was  the  gripe  of  a  fear  and  a  wish  upon  her  heart, 
that  overmastered  all  others.  The  people  had  sung  a 
hymn  that  evening,  after  the  first  one  ;  a  hymn  of  Chris 
tian  gladness  and  strength,  to  an  air  as  spirited  as  the 
words.  Both  words  and  air  rang  in  her  mind,  through 
all  the  multifarious  thoughts  she  was  thinking ;  they 
floated  through  and  sounded  behind  them  like  a  strain 
of  the  blessed.  Eleanor  had  taken  one  glance  at  Mr. 
Rhys  while  it  was  singing ;  and  the  remembrance  of  his 
face  stung  her  as  the  sight  of  an  angel  might  have  done. 
The  counter  recollection  of  her  own  misery  in  the  sum 
mer  at  the  time  she  was  ill ;  the  longing  want  of  that 
secui'ity  and  hope  and  consequent  rest  of  mind,  was 
vividly  with  her  too.  Pushed  by  fear  and  desire,  Elea 
nor's  resolution  was  taken.  She  saw  not  the  way  clear, 
she  did  not  know  yet  the  "  Avicket-gate"  towards  which 
Bunyan's  Pilgrim  was  directed  ;  like  him  however  she 
resolved  to  "  keep  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  run." 

The  fire  had  died  all  out ;  the  grey  ashes  were  cold  ; 
she  was  very  cold  herself,  but  did  not  know  it.  The 
night  had  waned  away,  and  a  light  had  sprung  in  at  the 
window  which  Eleanor  thought  must  be  the  dawn.  It 
was  not;  it  was  the  old  moon  just  risen,  and  struggling 
through  the  fog.  But  the  moon  was  the  herald  of  dawn  ; 
and  Eleanor  got  up  from  the  hearth,  feeling  old  and  stiff; 
as  if  she  had  suddenly  put  on  twenty  years  of  age  more 


IN     THE     BARN.  171 

than  she  came  to  the  village  with.  The  room  was  quite 
too  cold  for  Jane,  she  remembered  ;  and  softly  she  went 
up  and  down  for  kindling  and  lighted  up  the  fire  again. 
Till  she  had  done  that,  she  felt  grey  and  stern,  like  the 
November  morning;  but  when  the  fire  crackled  and 
sparkled  before  her,  and  gave  its  cheery  look  and  com 
forting  warmth  to  her  chilled  senses,  some  curious  sym 
pathy  with  times  that  were  gone  and  that  she  dared  not 
hope  to  see  again,  smote  Eleanor  with  a  softer  sorrow ; 
and  she  wept  a  very  rain  of  new  tears.  These  did  her 
good  ;  they  washed  some  of  the  bitterness  out  of  her ; 
and  after  that  she  sat  thinking  how  she  should  manage ; 
when  Mr.  Rhys's  parting  words  suddenly  recurred  to 
her.  A  blanker  ignorance  how  they  should  be  followed, 
can  scarcely  be  imagined,  in  a  person  of  general  sense 
and  knowledge.  Nevertheless,  she  bowed  herself  on  the 
hearth,  surely  not  more  in  form  than  in  feeling,  and  be 
sought  of  that  One  whose  aid  she  knew  not  how  to  ask, 
that  he  would  yet  give  it  to  her  and  fulfil  all  her  desires. 
Eleanor  «was  exhausted  then.  She  sat  in  a  stupor  of 
resting,  till  the  faint  illumination  of  the  moon  was  really 
replaced  by  a  growing  and  broadening  light  of  day. 
The  night  was  gone. 


CHAPTEE    IX. 

"  Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charles  is  snarling ; 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 
You  are  not  her  darling." 

ELEAXOE  set  out  early  to  go  home.  She  would  not 
wait  to  be  sent  for.  The  walk  might  set  her  pulses  in 
motion  again  perhaps.  The  fog  was  breaking  away  un 
der  the  sun's  rays,  but  ifr  had  left  everything  wet-;  the 
morning  was  excessively  chill.  There  was  no  grass  in 
her  way  however,  and  Eleanor's  thick  shoes  did  not  fear 
the  road,  nor  her  feet  the  three  miles  of  way.  The  walk 
was  good.  It  could  not  be  said  to  be  pleasant ;  yet 
action  of  any  kind  was  grateful  and  helpful.  She  saw 
not  a  creature  till  she  got  home. 

Home  struck  her  with  new  sorrow,  in  the  sense  of  the 
disappointment  she  was  going  to  bring  to  so  many  there. 
She  made  her  own  room  without  having  to  speak  to 
anybody ;  bathed  and  dressed  for  breakfast.  How 
grave  her  face  was,  this  morning  !  She  could  not  help 
that.  And  she  felt  that  it  grew  graver,  when  entering 
the  breakfast  room  she  found  Mr.  Carlisle  there. 

"What  have  you  done  to  yourself?"  said  he  after 
they  wei*e  seated  at  the  breakfast  table. 

"  Taken  a  walk  this  morning." 

"  Judicious  !  in  this  air,  which  is  like  a  suspended 
shower-bath  !  Where  did  you  go  ?'' 

"  On  the  Wiglands  road." 

"  If  I  had  come  in  time,  I  should  have  taken  you  up 


IN     PERPLEXITIES.  173 

before  me  and  cut  short  such  a  proceeding.  Mrs.  Powle, 
you  do  not  make  use  of  your  authority." 

"  Seems  hardly  Avorth  while,  when  it  is  on  the  point  of 
expiring,"  said  Mrs.  Powle  blandly,  with  a  smiling  face. 

"  Why  Eleanor  had  to  come  home,"  said  Julia ;  "  she 
spent  the  night  in  the  village.  She  could  not  help  walk 
ing — unless  mamma  had  sent  the  carnage  or  something 
for  her." 

"  Spent  the  night  in  the  village  !"  said  Mr.  Carlisle. 

"  Eleanor  took  it  into  her  head  that  she  must  go  to  take 
care  of  a  sick  girl  there — the  daughter  of  her  nurse. 
It  is  great  foolishness,  I  think,  but  Eleanor  will  do  it." 

"  It  don't  agree  with  her  very  well,"  said  Julia.  "  How 
you  do  look,  Eleanor,  this  morning  !" 

"  She  looks  very  well,"  said  the  Squire — "  for  all  I  see. 
Walking  won't  hurt  her." 

What  Mr.  Carlisle  thought  he  did  not  say.  When 
breakfast  was  over  he  drew  Eleanor  off  into  the  library. 

"  How  do  you  do  this  morning  ?"  said  he  stopping  to 
look  at  her. 

"  Not  very  well." 

"  I  came  early,  to  give  you  a  great  gallop  to  the  other 
end  of  the  moor — where  you  wished  to  go  the  other 
day.  You  are  not  fit  for  it  now  ?" 

"  Hardly;" 

"  Did  you  sit  up  with  that  girl  last  night  ? 

"  I  sat  up.  She  did  not  want  much  done  for  her.  My 
being  there  was  a  great  comfort  to.  her." 

"  Far  too  great  a  comfort.  You  are  a  naughty  child. 
Do  you  fancy,  Eleanor,  your  husband  will  allow  you  to 
do  such  things  ?" 

"  I  must  try  to  do  what  is  right,  Macintosh." 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  will  be  right  that  you  should 
pleasure  me  in  what  I  ask  of  you  ?"  he  said  very  gently 
and  with  a  caressing  action  which  took  away  the  edge 
of  the  words. 


1 74  T  H  E     O  L  D     II  E  L  M  K  T  . 

"Yes — in  things  that  are  right,"  said  Eleanor,  who 
felt  that  she  owed  him  all  gentleness  because  of  the 
wrong  she  had  done. 

"  I  shall  not  ask  you  anything  that  is  not  right ;  but 
if  I  should, — the  responsibility  of  your  doing  wrong  will 
rest  on  me.  Now  do  you  feel  inclined  to  practise  obedi 
ence  a  little  to  day  ?" 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  said  Eleanor  honestly,  her  blood 
rousing. 

"  It  will  be  all  the  better  practice.  You  must  go  and 
lie  down  and  rest  carefully,  and  get  ready  to  ride  with 
me  this  afternoon,  if  the  weather  will  do.  Eh,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  I  shall  want  to  ride  to-day." 

"  Kiss  me,  and  say  you  will  do  as  I  bid  you." 

Eleanor  obeyed,  and  went  to  her  room  feeling  wretched. 
She  must  find  some  way  quickly  to  alter  this  state  of 
things — if  she  could  alter  them.  In  the  mean  time  she 
had  promised  to  rest.  It  was  a  comfort  to  lock  the  door 
and  feel  that  for  hours  at  any  rate  she  was  alone  from  all 
the  world.  But  Eleanor's  heart  fainted.  She  lay  down, 
and  for  a  long  time  remained  in  motionless  passive  dis 
may  ;  then  nature  asserted  her  rights  and  she  slept. 

If  sleep  did  not  quite  "  knit  up  the  ravelled  sleeve  of 
care"  for  her,  Eleanor  yet  felt  much  less  ragged  when  she 
came  out  of  her  slumber.  There  was  some  physical 
force  now  to  meet  the  mental  demand.  The  first  thing 
demanded  was  a  letter  to  Mr.  Carlisle.  It  was  in  vain 
to  think  to  tell  him  in  spoken  words  what  she  wanted 
him  to  know ;  he  would  cut  them  short  or  turn  them 
aside  as  soon  as  he  perceived  their  drift,  before  she  could 
at  all  possess  him  with  the  facts  of  the  case.  Eleanor  sat 
down  before  dressing,  to  write  her  letter,  so  that  no  call 
might  break  her  off  until  it  was  done. 

It  was  a  weary,  anxious,  sorrowful  Avriting ;  done  with 
some  tears  and  some  mute  prayers  for  help  ;  with  images 
constantly  starting  into  her  mind  that  she  had  to  put 


IN     PERPLEXITIES.  175 

aside  together  with  the  hot  drops  they  called  forth. 
The  letter  was  finished,  when  Eleanor  was  informed  that 
Mr.  Carlisle  waited  for  her. 

"  To  ride,  I  suppose,"  she  thought.  "  I  will  not  go." 
She  put  on  a  house  dress  #nd  went  down  to  the  library, 
where  her  mother  and  Mr.  Carlisle  were  together ;  look 
ing  both  of  them  so  well  pleased  ! 

"  You  are  not  dressed  for  riding !"  he  said,  taking  her 
into  his  arms. 

"  As  you  see — "  returned  Eleanor. 

"  I  have  brought  a  new  horse  for  you.  "Will  you 
change  your  dress  ?" 

"  I  think  not.     I  am  not  equal  to  anything  new.*' 

"  Have  you  slept  ?'' 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  not  eaten ;  and  it  takes  both  to  make 
muscle.  .  I  cannot  even  talk  to  you  till  after  tea." 

"  Have  you  had  no  luncheon  ?'' 

"  I  was  asleep." 

"  Mrs.  Powle,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  you  do  not  take 
care  of  my  interests,  here.  May  I  request  you  to  have 
this  want  supplied — I  am  going  to  take  Eleanor  a  great 
gallop  presently ;  she  must  have  something  first."  He 
put  Eleanor  in  an  easy  chair  as  he  spoke,  and  stood  look 
ing  at  her.  Probably  he  saw  some  unusual  lines  of 
thought  or  care  about  the  face,  but  it  was  by  no  means 
less  fine  for  that.  Mr.  Carlisle  liked  what  he  saw.  Re 
freshments  came ;  and  he  poured  out  chocolate  for  her 
and  served  her  with  an  affectionate  supervision  that 
watched  every  item.  But  when  after  a  very  moderate 
meal  Eleanor's  hand  was  stretched  out  for  another  piece 
of  bread,  he  stopped  her. 

"  No"  he  said;  "no  more  now.  Now  go  and  put  on 
your  habit." 

"  But  I  am  very  hungry,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  No  matter — you  will  forget  it  in  five  minutes.  Go 
and  put  on  your  habit." 


1 76  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

Eleanor  hesitated ;  thought  that  perhaps  after  all  the 
ride  would  be  the  easiest  way  of  passing  the  afternoon ; 
and  went. 

"  Well  you  do  understand  the  art  of  command,"  said 
Mrs.  Powle  admiringly.  "  She  would  never  have  done 
that  for  me." 

Mr.  Carlisle  did  not  look  surprised,  nor  gratified,  nor 
in  fact  shew  anything  whatever  in  his  looks.  Unless  it 
were,  that  the  difference  of  effects  produced  by  himself 
and  his  future  mother-in-law,  was  very  much  a  matter  of 
course.  He  stood  before  the  fire,  with  no  change  at  all 
in  his  clear  hazel  eyes,  until  Eleanor  appeared.  Then 
they  sparkled.  Eleanor  was  for  some  reason  or  othei 
particularly  lovely  in  his  eyes  to-day. 

The  horse  he  had  brought  for.  her  was  a  superb  Ara 
bian,  shewing  nerve  and  fire  in  every  line  of  his  form  and 
starting  muscle,  from  the  tips  of  the  ears  down  to  the 
long  fetlock  and  beautiful  hoof.  Shewing  fire  in  the 
bright  eye  too.  A  brown  creature,  with  luxuriant  flow 
ing  mane  and  tail. 

"  He  is  not  quite  so  quiet  as  Black  Maggie,"  Mr.  Car 
lisle  said  as  he  put  Eleanor  upon  his  back ;  "  and  you 
must  not  curb  him,  Eleanor,  or  he  will  run." 

They  went  to  the  moor ;  and  by  degrees  getting 
wonted  to  her  fiery  charger  and  letting  him  display  his 
fine  paces  and  increase  his  speed,  Eleanor  found  the 
sensation  very  inspiriting.  Even  Black  Maggie  was  not 
an  animal  like  this ;  every  motion  was  instinct  with  life 
and  power,  and  not  a  little  indication  of  headstrpngness 
and  irritability  gave  a  great  additional  interest  and 
excitement  to  the  pleasure  of  managing  him.  Mr.  Car 
lisle  watched  her  carefully,  Eleanor  knew ;  he  praised 
her  handling.  He  himself  was  mounted  on  a  quiet,  pow 
erful  creature  that  did  not  make  much  shew. 

"  If  this  fellow — what  is  his  name  ?" 

"  Tippoo  Sultan." 


IN     PEKPLKXITIES.  177 

• 

"  If  he  were  by  any  chance  to  run — would  that  horse 
you  are  riding  keep  up  with  him  ?" 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  try." 

"  I  don't  mean  it — but  I  am  curious.  There,  Mr. 
Carlisle,  there  is  the  place  where  I  was  thrown." 

"  A  villainous  looking  place.  I  wish  it  was  mine. 
How  do  you  like  Tippoo  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  delightful !" 

Mr.  Carlisle  looked  satisfied,  as  he  might ;  for  Elea 
nor's  colour  had  become  brilliant,  and  her  facehad  changed 
greatly  since  setting  out.  Strength  and  courage  and 
hope  seemed  to  come  to  her  on  Tippoo's  back,  facing  the 
wind  on  the  moor  and  gallopping  over  the  wild,  free 
way.  They"  took  in  part  the  route  Eleanor  had  followed 
that  day  alone,  coming  back  through  the  village  by  a 
still  wider  circuit.  As  they  rode  more  moderately  along 
the  little  street,  if  it  could  be  called  so ;  the  houses  were 
all  on  one  side ;  Eleanor  saw  Mr.  Rhys  standing  at  Mrs. 
Lewis's  door ;  he  saw  her.  Involuntarily  her  bow  in 
return  to  his  salutation  was  very  low.  At  the  same 
instant  Tippoo  started,  on  a  run  to  which  all  his  former 
gallopping  had  been  a  gentle  amble.  This  was  not 
ungentle ;  the  motion  had  nothing  rough  ;  only  Eleanor 
was  going  in  a  straight  line  over  the  ground  at  a  rate 
that  took  away  her  breath.  She  had  presence  of  mind 
not  to  draw  the  curb  rein,  but  she  felt  that  she  could 
hardly  endure  long  the  sort  of  progress  she  was  making 
through  the  air.  It  did  not  seem  to  be  on  the  ground. 
Her  curiosity  was  gratified  on  one  point ;  for  after  the 
first  instant  she  found  Mr.  Carlisle's  powerful  grey 
straining  close  beside  her.  Nevertheless  Tippoo  was  so 
entirely  in  earnest  that  it.  was  some  little  time — it  seemed 
a  very  long  one— before  the  grey  could  get  so  close  to 
the  brown  and  so  far  up  with  him  that  Mr.  Carlisle 
could  lay  his  hand  upon  the  thick  brown  mane  of  Tip 
poo  and  stoop  forward  to  speak  to  him.  As  soon  as 

8* 


178  THE      OLD     HELMET. 

that  was  done,  once  or  twice,  Tippoo's  speed  gradually 
relaxed ;  and  a  perseverance  in  his  master's  appeals  to 
his  reason  and  sense  of  duty,  brought  the  wild  creature 
back  to  a  moderate  pace  and  the  air  of  a  civilized  horse. 
Mr.  Carlisle  transferred  his  grasp  from  the  mane  to 
Eleanor's  hand. 

"  Eleanor,  what  did  you  do  that  for  ?" 

"  Do  what  ?     I  did  nothing." 

%  You  curbed  him.  You  drew  the  rein,  and  he  con 
sidered  himself  insulted.  I  told  you  he  would  not 
bear  it." 

"He  has  had  nothing  to  bear  from  me.  I  have  not 
drawn  the  curb  at  all,  Robert." 

"I  must  contradict  you.  I  saw  you  do  it.  That 
started  him." 

Eleanor  remained  silent  and  a  little  pale.  Was  Mr. 
Carlisle  right  ?  The  ride  had  until  then  done  her  a 
great  deal  of  good ;  roused  up  her  energies  and  restored 
in  some  degree  her  spii'it ;  the  involuntary  race  together 
with  the  sudden  sight  of  Mr.  Rhys,  had  the  effect  to 
bring  back  all  the  soberness  which  for  the  moment  the 
delight  and  stir  of  the  exercise  had  dissipated.  She 
went  on  pondering  various  things.  Eleanor's  letter  to 
Mr.  Carlisle  was  in  the  pocket  of  her  habit,  ready  for 
use ;  she  determined  to  give  it  him  when  he  left  her 
that  evening;  that  was  one  of  "her  subjects  of  thought. 
Accordingly  he  found  her  very  abtracted  and  cold  the 
rest  of  the  way ;  grave  and  uninterested.  He  fancied 
she  might  have  been  startled  by  her  run  on  Tippoo's 
back,  though  it  was  not  very  like  her ;  but  he  did  not 
know  what  to  fancy.  And  true  it  is,  that  a  remembrance 
of  fear  had  come  up  to  Eleanor  after  that  gallop.  Afraid 
she  was  not,  at  the  time  ;  but  she  felt  that  she  had  been 
in  a  condition  of  some  peril  from  which  her  own  forces 
could  not  have  extricated  her  ;  that  brought  up  other  con 
siderations,  and  sadly  in  Eleanor's  mind  some  words  of 


IN     PERPLEXITIES.  179 

the  hymn  they  had  sung  last  night  in  the  barn  floated 
over  among  her  thoughts. 

"  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear, 

To  mansions  in  the  skies, 
I'll  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 
And  wipe  my  weeping  eyes." 

Very  simple  words ;  words  that  to  some  ears  have 
become  trite  Avith  repetition ;  but  thoughts  that  went 
down  into  the  depths  of  Eleanor's  heart  and  garrisoned 
themselves  there,  beyond  the  power  of  any  attacks  to  dis 
lodge.  Her  gravity  and  indhTerence  piqued  Mr.  Carlisle, 
curiosity  and  affection  both.  He  spent  the  evening  in 
trying  to  overcome  them ;  with  very  partial  success. 
When  he  was  leaving  her,  Eleanor  drew  the  letter  from 
her  pocket. 

"  What  is  this  ?"  said  he  taking  it. 

"  Only  a  letter  for  you." 

"  From  you  !  The  consideration  of  that  must  not  be 
postponed."  He  broke  the  seal.  "Come,  sit  down 
again.  I  will  read  it  here." 

"  Not  now !  Take  it  home,  Macintosh,  and  read  it 
there.  Let  it  wait  so  long." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Never  mind  why.     Do  !     Because  I  ask  you." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can  understand  it  without  you  be 
side  me,"  said  he  smiling,  and  drawing  the  letter  from 
its  envelope  while  he  looked  at  her. 

"  But  there  is  everybody  here,"  said  Eleanor  glancing 
at  another  part  of  the  room  where  the  rest  of  the  family 
were  congregated.  "  I  would  rather  you  took  it  home 
with  you." 

"  It  is  something  that  requires  serious  treatment  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  a  wise  little  thing,"  said  he,  "  and  I  will 
take  your  advice."  He  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket; 


180  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

then  took  Eleanor's  hand  upon  his  arm  and  walked  her 
off  to  the  library.  Nobody  was  there ;  lamplight  and 
firelight  were  warm  and  bright.  Mr.  Carlisle  placed  his 
charge  in  an  easy  chair  by  the  library  table,  much  to  her 
disappointment ;  drew  another  close  beside  it,  and  sat 
down  with  his  arm  over  the  back  of  hers  to  read  the 
letter.  Thus  it  ran. 

"  It  is  right  you  should  know  a  change  which  has  taken 
place  in  me  since  the  time  when  I  first  became  known  to 
you.  I  have  changed  very  much,  though  it  is  a  change 
perhaps  which  you  will  not  believe  in ;  yet  I  feel  that  it 
makes  me  very  different  from  my  old  self,  and  alters  en 
tirely  my  views  of  almost  everything.  Life  and  life's 
affairs — and  aims — do  not  l<3ok  to  me  as  they  looked  a 
few  months  ago  ;  if  indeed  I  could  be  said  to  have  taken 
any  view  at  all  of  them  then.  They  were  little  more 
than  names  to  me,  I  believe.  They  are  great  realities 
now. 

I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you  in  what  this  change  in 
me  consists,  for  I  doubt  you  will  neither  like  it  nor  be 
lieve  in  it.  Yet  you  must  believe  in  it ;  for  I  am  not  the 
woman  I  was  a  little  while  ago ;  not  the  woman  you 
think  me  now.  If  I  suffered  you  to  go  on  as  you  are,  in 
ignorance  of  it,  I  should  be  deceiving  you.  I  have  open 
ed  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  this  life  is  not  the  end  of  life. 
I  see  another  beyond, — much  more  lasting,  unknown, 
strange,  perhaps  not  very  distant.  The  thought  of  it 
presses  upon  me  like  a  cloud.  I  want  to  be  ready  for  it 
— I  feel  I  am  not  ready — and  that  before  I  can  be  ready, 
not  only  my  views  but  my  character  must  be  changed. 
I  am  determined  it  shall.  For,  Mr.  Carlisle,  there  is  a 
Ruler  whose  government  extends  over  this  life  and  that, 
whose  requisitions  I  have  never  met,  whose  commands  I 
have  never  obeyed,  whom  consequently  I  fear ;  and 
until  this  fear  is  changed  for  another  feeling  I  cannot  be 
happy.  I  will  not  live  the  life  I  have  been  leading; 


IN     PEKPLEXITIES.  181 

careless  and  thoughtless ;  I  will  be  the  servant  of  this 
Ruler  whom  hitherto  I  have  disregarded.  Whatever 
his  commands  are,  those  I  will  follow  ;  at  all  costs,  at  any 
sacrifice ;  whatever  I  have  or  possess  shall  be  used  for  his 
service.  One  thing  I  desire  ;  to  be  a  true  servant  of  God, 
and  not  fear  his  face  in  displeasure.  To  secure  that,  I 
will  let  everything  else  in  the  world  go. 

"I  wish  you  to  understand  this  thoroughly.  It  will 
draw  on  consequences  that  you  would  not  like.  It  will 
make  me  such  a  woman  as  you  would  not,  I  feel,  wish 
your  wife  to  be.  I  shall  follow  a  course  of  life  and  ac 
tion  that  in  many  things,  I  know,  would  be  extremely 
distasteful  to  you.  Yet  I  must  follow  them — I  can  do 
no  other — I  dare  do  no  other.  I  cannot  live  as  I  have 
lived.  No,  not  for  any  reward  or  consideration  that 
could  be  offered  me'.  Nor  to  avoid  any  human  anger. 

I  think  you  would  probably  choose  never  to  see  me  at 
the  Priory,  rather  than  to  see  me  there  such  a  woman  as 
I  shall  be.  In  that  case  I  shall  be  \rery  sorry  for  all  the 
disagreeable  consequences  which  would  to  you  attend 
the  annulling  of  the  contract  formed  between  us.  My 
own  part  of  them  I  am  ready  to  bear. 

ELEANOR  POWLE." 

The  letter  was  read  through  almost  under  Eleanor's 
own  eyes.  She  looked  furtively,  as  she  could,  to  see 
how  Mr.  Carlisle  took  it.  He  did  not  seem  to  take  it  at 
all ;  she  could  find  no  change  in  his  face.  If  the  brow 
slightly  bent  before  her  did  slightly  knit  itself  in  sterner 
lines  than  common,  she  could  not  be  sure  of.it,  bent  as 
it  was ;  and  when  he  looked  up,  there  was  no  such 
expression  there.  He  looked  as  pleasant  as  possible. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  laugh  at  you  ?"  he  said. 

"  That  was  not  the  precise  object  I  had  in  writing," 
said  Eleanor  soberly. 

"  I  do  not  suppose  it,  and  yet  I  feel  very  much  like 


182  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

laughing  at  you  a  little.  So  you  think  you  can  make 
yourself  a  woman  I  would  not  like, — eh,  my  darling  ?" 

He  had  drawn  Eleanor's  head  down  to  his  shoulder, 
within  easy  reach  of  his  lips,  but  he  did  not  kiss  her. 
His  right  hand  smoothed  back  the  masses  of  her  beauti 
ful  hair,  and  then  rested  on  her  cheek  while  he  looked 
into  the  face  thus  held  for  near  inspection  ;  much  as  one 
handles  a  child.  The  touch  was  light  and  caressing,  and 
calm  as  power  too.  Eleanor  breathed  quick.  She 
could  not  bear  it.  She  forced  herself  back  where  she 
could  look  at  him. 

"  You  are  taking  it  lightly,  but  I  mean  it  very  seri 
ously,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I  could — I  think  I  shall.  I 
did  not  write  you  such  a  letter  without  very  deep 
reason." 

He  still  retained  his  hold  of  her,  and  in  his  right  hand 
had  captured  one  of  hers.  This  hand  he  now  brought 
to  his  lips,  kissing  and  caressing  it. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  understand  it  yet,"  he  said.  ""What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself?  Is  it  your  old  pas 
sion  for  a  monastic  life  come  up  again  ?  do  you  want  the 
old  Priory  built  up,  and  me  for  a  Father  Confessor  ?" 

Did  he  mean  ever  to  loose  his  hold  of  the  little  hand 
he  held  so  lightly  and  firmly  ?  Never  !  Eleanor's  head 
.drooped. 

"  What  is  it,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  It  is  serious  work,  Mr.  Carlisle ;  and  you  will  not 
believe  me." 

"  Make  me  serious  too.  Tell  me  a  little  more  defi 
nitely  what  dreadful  thing  I  am  to  expect.  What  sort 
of  a  woman  is  my  wife  going  to  be  ?" 

"  Such  a  one  as  you  would  not  have,  if  you  knew  it ; — 
euch  a  one  as  you  never  would  have  sought,  if  I  had 
known  it  myself  earlier ;  I  feel  sure."  Eleanor's  colour 
glowed  all  over  her  face  and  brow;  nevertheless  she 
spoke  steadily. 


IN     PERPLEXITIES.  183 

"  Enigmatical !"  said  Mr.  Carlisle.  "  The  'only  thing 
I  understand  is  this — and  this — "  and  he  kissed  alter 
nately  her  cheek  and  lips.  "  Here  is  my  wife — here  is 
what  I  wish  her  to  be.  It  will  be  all  right  the  twenty- 
first  of  next  month.  What  will  you  do  after  that, 
Eleanor  ?" 

Eleanor  was  silent,  mortified,  troubled,  silenced. 
What  was  the  use  of  trying  to  explain  herself? 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do,  Eleanor  ?  Give  ah1  your 
money  to  the  poor  ?  I  believe  that  is  your  pet  fancy. 
Is  that  what  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

Eleanor's  cheeks  burnt  again.  "You  know  I  have 
very  little  money  to  give,  Mr.  Carlisle.  But  I  have 
determined  to  give  myself" 

"  To  me  ?" 

"  No,  no.  I  mean,  to  duties  and  commands  higher  than 
any  human  obligation.  And  they  may,  and  probably 
will,  oblige  me  to  live  in  a  way  that  would  not  please 
you." 

"  Let  us  see.     What  is  the  novelty  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  live — it  is  right  I  should  tell  you, 
whether  you  will  believe  me  or  not, — I  am  going  to  live 
henceforth  not  for  this  world  but  the  other." 

"  How  ?"  said  he,  looking  at  her  with  his  clear  bril 
liant  eyes. 

"I  do  not  know,  in  detail.  But  you  know,  in  the 
Church  service,  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the  world  are 
renoimced ;  whatever  that  involves,  it  will  find  me  obedi 
ent." 

"  What  has  put  this  fancy  in-  your  head,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  A  sense  of  danger,  first,  I  think." 

"  A  sense  of  danger  !     Danger  of  what  ?" 

"  Yes.  A  feeling  of  being  unready  for  that  other  life 
to  which  I  might  at  any  time  go ; — that  other  world,  I 
mean.  I  cannot  be  happy  so."  She  was  agitated ;  her 
colour  was  high  ;  her  nerves  trembled. 


184  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

"  How  came  this  '  sense  of  danger  '  into  your  head  ? 
what  brought  it,  or  suggested  it  ?" 

"  When  I  was  ill  last  summer — I  felt  it  then.  I  have 
felt  it  since.  I  feel  my  head  uncovered  to  meet  the  storm 
that  may  at  any  time  break  upon  it.  I  am  going  to  live, 
if  I  can,  as  people  live  whom  you  would  laugh  at ;  you 
would  call  them  fanatics  and  fools.  It  is  the  only  way 
for  me  to  be  happy ;  but  you  would  not  like  it  in  one 
near  you." 

"  Go  in  a  black  dress,  Eleanor  ?" 

She  was  silent.  She  very  nearly  burst  into  tears,  but 
prevented  that. 

"  You  can't  terrify  me,"  said  Mr.  Carlisle,  lazily  throw 
ing  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "  I  don't  get  up  a  '  sense 
of  danger'  as  easily  as  you  do,  darling.  One  look  in 
your  face  puts  all  that  to  flight  at  once.  I  am  safe.  You 
may  do  what  you  like." 

"  You  would  not  say  that  by  and  by,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Would  I  not  ?"  said  he,  rousing  up  and  drawing  her 
tenderly  but  irresistibly  to  his  arms  again.  "  But  make 
proper  amends  to  me  for  breaking  rules  to-night,  and 
you  shall  have  carte-blanche  for  this  new  fancy,  Eleanor. 
How  are  you  going  to  ask  my  forgiveness  ?" 

"  You  ought  to  ask  mine — for  you  will  not  attend  to 
me." 

"  Contumacious  ?"  said  he  lightly,  touching  her  lips  as 
if  they  were  a  goblet  and  he  were  taking  sips  of  the 
wine  ; — "  then  I  shall  take  my  own  amends.  You  shall 
live  as  you  please,  darling,  only  take  me  along  with  you." 

"  You  will  not  go." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Neither  your  feeling  nor  your  taste  agree  with  it." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  !"  said  he  half  laughing, 
holding  her  fast  and  looking  down  into  her  face.  tc  My 
little  Eleanor !  Make  yourself  a  grey  nun,  or  a  blue 
Puritan  ?  Grey  becomes  you,  darling ;  it  makes  a 


IN     PERPLEXITIES.  185 

duchess  of  you  ;  and  blue  is  set  off  by  this  magnificent 
brown  head  of  yours.  I  will  answer  for  my  taste  in 
either  event ;  and  I  think  you  could  bear,  and  conse 
quently  I  could,  all  the  other  colours  in  the  rainbow. 
As  for  your  idea,  of  making  yourself  a  woman  that  I 
would  not  like,  I  do  not  think  you  can  compass  it.  You 
may  try.  I  will  not  let  you  go  too  far." 

"  You  cannot  hinder  it,  Macintosh,"  said  Eleanor  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  Kiss  me  !"  said  he  laughingly. 

Eleanor  slowly  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder  and 
obeyed,  so  far  as  a  very  dainty  and  shyly  given  permis 
sion  went ;  feeling  bitterly  that  she  had  brought  herself 
into  bonds  from  which  only  Mr.  Carlisle's  hand  could 
release  her.  She  could  not  break  them  herself.  What 
possible  reason  could  she  assign  ?  And  so  she  was  in 
his  power. 

"  Cheeks  hot,  and  hands  cold, — "  said  Mr.  Carlisle  to 
himself  as  he  walked  away  throxigh  the  rooms.  "  I  wish 
the  twenty  first  were  to-morrow  !"  He  stopped  in  .the 
drawing-room  to  hold  a  consultation  of  some  length 
with  Mrs.  Powle  ;  in  which  however  he  confided  to  her 
no  more  than  that  the  last  night's  attention  to  her  nurse's 
daughter  had  been  quite  too  much  for  Eleanor,  and  he 
should  think  it  extremely  injudicious  to  allow  it  again. 
Which  Mrs.  Powle  had  no  idea  of  doing. 

Neither  had  Eleanor  any  idea  of  attempting  it.  But 
she  spent  half  that  night  in  heart-ache  and  in  baffled 
searchings  for  a  path  out  of  her  difficulties.  What  could 
she  do  ?  If  Mr.  Carlisle  would  marry  her,  she  saw  no 
help  for  it ;  and  to  disgust  him  with  her  would  be  a  dif 
ficult  matter.  For  oh,  Eleanor  knew,  that  though  he 
would  not  like  a  religious  wife,  he  had  good  reason  to 
trust  his  own  power  of  regulating  any  tendency  of  that 
sort  which  might  offend  him.  Once  his  wife,  once  let 
that  strong  arm  have,  a  right  to  be  round  her  perma- 


186  THE      OLD     HELMET. 

nently ;  and  Eleanor  knew  it  would  be  an  effectual  bar 
against  whatever  he  wished  to  keep  at  a  distance. 

Eleanor  was  armed  with  no  Christian  armour ;  no 
helmet  or  shield  of  protection  had  she ;  all  she  had  was 
the  strength  of  fear,  and  the  resolute  determination  to 
seek  until  she  should  find  that  panoply  in  which  she 
would  be  safe  and  strong.  Once  married  to  Mr.  Car 
lisle,  and  she  felt  that  her  determination  would  be  in 
danger,  and  her  resolution  meet  another  resolution  with 
which  it  might  have  hard  fighting  to  do.  Ay,  and  who 
knew  whether  hers  would  overcome  !  She  must  not  fin 
ish  this  marriage ;  yet  how  induce  Mr.  Carlisle  to  think 
of  her  as  she  wished  ? 

"  I  declare,"  said  Mrs.  Powle  coming  into  her  room 
the  next  day,  "  that  one  night's  sitting  up,  has  done  the 
work  of  a  week's  illness  upon  you,  Eleanor !  Mr.  Car 
lisle  is  right." 

"  In  what  ?"    • 

"  He  said  you  must  not  go  again." 

"  I  think  he  is  somewhat  premature  in  arranging  my 
movements." 

"  Don't  you  like  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  Powle  laughing  a  lit 
tle.  "You  must  learn  to  submit  to  that.  I  •am  glad 
there  is  somebody  that  can  control  you,  Eleanor,  at  last. 
It  does  me  good.  It  was  just  a  happiness  that  you  never 
took  anything  desperate  into  your  head,  for  your  father 
and  you  together  were  more  than  a  match  for  me  ;  and 
it's  just  the  same  with  Julia.  But  Julia  really  is  grow 
ing  tame  and  more  reasonable,  I  think,  lately." 

"  Good  reasonjvhy,"  thought  Eleanor  moodily.  "  But 
that  is  a  better  sort  of  control  she  is  under." 

"  I  am  charged  with  a  commission  to  you,  Eleanor." 

"  What  is  it,  ma'am  ?" 

"  To  find  out  what  particular  kind  of  jewels  you  pre 
fer.  I  really  don't  know,  so  am  obliged  to  ask  you — 
which  was  not  in  my  commission." 


IN     PERPLEXITIES.  187 

* 

"  Jewels,  mamma !" 

"  Jewels,  my  lady." 

"  O  mamma  !  don't  talk  to  me  of  jewels  !" 

"  Nor  of  weddings,  I  suppose  ;  but  really  I  do  not 
see  how  things  are  to  be  done  unless  they  are  to  be 
talked  about.  For  instance,  this  matter  of  your  liking 
in  jewellery — I  think  rubies  become  you,  Eleanor ;  though 
to  be  sure  there  is  nothing  I  like  so  well  as  diamonds. 
What  is  'the  matter  ?" 

For  Eleanor's  brown  head  had  gone  down  on  the  table 
before  her  and  her  face  was  hidden  in  her  hands.  She 
slowly  raised  it  at  her  mother's  question. 

"  Mamma,  Mr.  Carlisle  does  not  know  what  he  is 
doing !" 

"  Pray  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  He  thinks  he  is  marrying  a  person  who  will  be  gay 
and  live  for  and  in  the  world,  as  he  lives — and  as  he 
would  wish  me.  Mamma,  I  will  not !  I  never  will.  I 
never  shall  be  what  he  likes  in  that  respect.  I  mean  to 
live  a  religious  life." 

"  A  religious  life  !     What  sort  of  a  life  is  that  ?" 

"  It  is  what  you  do  not  like — nor  he." 

"  A  religious  life !  Eleanor,  you  do  not  suppose  Mr. 
Carlisle  would  wish  his  wife  to  lead  an  irreligious  life  ?" 

"  Yes— I  do." 

"  I  should  not  like  you  to  tell  him  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Powle  colouring  with  anger.  "  How  dare  you  say  it  ? 
What  sort  of  a  religious  life  do  you  want  to  live  ?" 

"  Such  a  one  as  the  Bible  bids,  mamma,"  Eleanor  said 
in  a  low  voice  and  drooping  her  head.  "  Such  a  one  as 
the  Prayer  Book  recommends,  over  and  over." 

"  And  you  think  Mr.  Carlisle  would  not  like  that  ? 
What  insinuations  you  are  making  against  us  all,  Eleanor. 
For  of  course,  I,  your  mother,  have  wished  you  also  to 
live  this  irreligious  life.  We  are  a  set  of  heathens 
together.  Dr.  Cairnes  too.  He  was  delighted  with  it." 


188  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

.     * 

"  It  changes  nothing,  mamma,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  am 
resolved  to  live  in  a  different  way ;  and  Mr.  Carlisle 
would  not  like  it ;  and  if  he  only  knew  it,  he  would  not 
*  wish  to  marry  me  ;  and  I  cannot  make  him  believe  it." 

"  You  have  tried,  have  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  tried.     It  was  only  honest." 

"  Well  I  did  not  think  you  were  such  a  fool,  Eleanor ! 
and  I  am  sure  he  did  not.  Believe  you,  you  little  fool  ? 
he  knows  better.  He  knows  that  he  will  not  have  had 
you  a  week  at  the  Priory  before  you  will  be  too  happy 
to  live  what  life  he  pleases.  He  is  just  the  man  to  bring 
you  into  order.  I  only  wish  the  wedding-day  was  to 
morrow." 

Eleanor  drew  herself  up,  and  her  face  changed  from 
soft  and  sorrowful  to  stubborn.  She  kept  silence. 

"  In  this  present  matter  of  jewels,"  said  Mrs.  Powle 
returning  to  the  charge,  "  I  suppose  I  am  to  tell  him  that 
a  plain  set  of  jet  is  as  much  as  you  can  fancy  ;  or  tnat, 
as  it  would  be  rather  uncommon  to  be  married  in  black, 
you  will  take  bugles.  What  he  will  say  I  am  sure  I 
don't  know." 

"  You  had  better  not  try,  mamma,"  said  Eleanor. 
"  If  the  words  you  last  said  are  true,  and  I  should  be 
unable  to  follow  my  conscience  at  Rythdale  Priory,  then 
I  shall  never  go  there  ;  and  in  that  case  the  jewels  will 
not  be  wanted,  except  for  somebody  else  whose  taste 
neither  bugles  nor  jet  would  suit." 

"  Now  you  have  got  one  of  your  obstinate  fits  on," 
said  Mrs.  Powle,  "  and  I  will  go.  I  shall  be  a  better 
friend  to  you  than  to  tell  Mr.  Carlisle  a  word  of  all  this, 
which  I  know  will  be  vanished  in  another  month  or  two ; 
and  if  you  value  your  good  fortune,  Eleanor,  I  recom 
mend  you  to  keep  a  wise  tongue  between  your  teeth  in 
talking  to  him.  I  know  one  thing— I  wish  Dr.  Cairnes, 
or  the  Government,  or  the  Church,  or  whoever  has  it  in 
hand,  would  keep  all  dissenting  fools  from  coming  to 


IN     PERPLEXITIES.  189 

Wiglands  to  preach  their  pestiferous  notions  here  !  and 
that  your  father  would  not  bring  them  to  his  house ! 
That  is  what  I  wish.  Will  you  be  reasonable,  and  give 
me  an  answer  about  the  jewels,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  I  cannot  think  about  jewels,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Powle  departed.  Eleanor-  sat  with  her  head 
bowed  in  her  hands ;  her  mind  in  dim  confusion,  through 
which  loomed  the  one  thought,  that  she  must  break  this 
marriage.  Her  mother's  words  had  roused  the  evil  as 
well  as  the  good  of  Eleanor's  nature ;  and  along  with 
bitter  self-reproaches  and  longings  for  good,  she  already 
by  foretaste  champed  the  bit  of  an  authority  that  she 
did  not  love.  So,  while  her  mind  was  in  a  sea  of  tur 
moil,  there  came  suddenly,  like  a  sun-blink  upon  the  con 
fusion,  a  soft  question  from  her  little  sister  Julia.  Nei 
ther  mother  nor  daughter  had  taken  notice  of  her  being 
in  the  room.  The  question  came  strangely  soft,  for 
Julia. 

"•Eleanor,  do  you-love  Jesus?" 

Eleanor  raised  her  head  in  unspeakable  astonishment, 
startled  &nd  even  shocked,  as  one  is  at  an  unheard-of  thing. 
Julia's  face  was  close  beside  her,  looking  wistful  and 
anxious,  and  tender  also.  The  look  struck  Eleanor's 
heart.  But  she  only  stared. 

"  Do  you  ?"  said  Julia  wistfully. 

It  wrought  the  most  unaccountable  convulsion  in  Elea 
nor's  mind,  this  little  dove's  feather  of  a  question,  touch 
ing  the  sore  and  angry  feelings  that  wrestled  there.  She 
flung  herself  off  her  chair,  and  on  her  knees  by  the  table 
sobbed  dreadfully.  Julia  stood  by,  looking  as  sober  as 
if  she  had  been  a  ministering  angel. 

Eleanor  knew  what  the  question  meant — that  was  all. 
She  had  heard  Mr.  Rhys  speak  of  it ;  she  had  heard  him 
speak  of  it  with  a  quiver  on  his  lip  and  a  flush  in  his 
face,  which  shewed  her  that  there  was  something  in  re 
ligion  that  she  had  never  fathomed,  nor  ever  before 


190  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

suspected  ;  there  was  a  hidden  region  of  joy  the  entrance 
to  which  was  veiled  from  her.  To  Eleanor  the  thing  would 
have  been  a  mere  mystery,  but  -that  she  had  seen  it  to 
be  a  reality  ;  once  seen,  that  was  never  to  be  forgotten. 
And  now,  in  the  midst  of  her  struggles  of  passion  and 
pain,  Julia's  question  came  innocently  asking  whether 
she  were  a  sharer  in  that  unearthly  wonderful  joy  which 
seemed  to  put  its  possessor  beyond  the  reach  of  struggles. 
Eleanor's  sobs  were  the  hard  sobs  of  pain.  As  wisely 
as  if  she  had  really  been  a  ministering  angel,  her  little  sis 
ter  stood  by  silent ;  and  said  not  another  word  until 
Eleanor  had  risen  and  taken  her  seat  again.  Nor  then 
either.  It  was  Eleanor  that  spoke. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it,  Julia  ?" 

"  Not  much,"  said  the  child.  "  I  love  the  Lord  Jesus — 
that  is  all, — and  I  thought,  perhaps,  from  the  way  you 
spoke,  that  you  did.  Mr.  Rhys  would  be  so  glad." 

"  He  ?     Glad  ?  what  do  you  mean,  Julia  ?" 

"  I\know  he  would ;  because  I  have  heard  him  pray 
for  you  a  great  many  times." 

"  No — no,"  said  Eleanor  turning  away, — 'i 1  know 
nothing  but  fear.  I  do  not  feel  anything  better.  And 
they  want  me  to  think  of  everything  else  in  the  world, 
but  this  one  thing  !" 

"  But  you  will  think  of  it,  Eleanor,  won't  you  ?" 
Eleanor    was    silent    and    abstracted.      Her    sister 
watched  her  with  strange  eyes  for  Julia,  anxiously  ob 
servant.    The  silence  lasted  some  time. 

"  When  does  Mr.  Rhys — Is  he  going  to  preach  again, 
Julia,  that  you  know  of?" 

"  I  guess  not.  He  was  very  tired  after  he  preached 
the  other  night ;  he  lay  on  the  couch  and  did  not  move 
the  whole  next  day.  He  is  better  to-day." 

"  You  have  seen  him  this  morning." 

"  O  yes.  I  see  him  every  day ;  and  he  teaches  me  a 
great  many  things.  But  he  always  prays  for  you." 


IN     PERPLEXITIES.  191 

Eleanor  did  not  wish  to  keep  up  the  conversation,  and 
it  dropped.  And  after  that,  things  went  on  their  train. 

It  was  a  very  fast  train,  too  ;  and  growing  in  import 
ance  and  thickening  in  its  urgency  of  speed.  Every  day 
the  preparations  converged  more  nearly  towards  their 
great  focus,  the  twenty-first  of  December.  Eleanor  felt 
the  whirl  of  circumstances,  felt  borne  off  her  feet  and 
carried  away  with  them ;  and  felt  it  hopelessly.  She 
knew  not  what  to  urge,  that  should  be  considered  suffi 
cient  reason  either  by  her  mother  or  Mr.  Carlisle  for  even 
delaying,  much  less  breaking  off  the  match.  She  was 
grave  and  proud,  and  unsatisfactory,  as  much  as  it  was 
in  her  nature  to  be,  partly  orysurpose ;  and  MP.  Carlisle 
was  not  satisfied,  and  hurried  on  things  all  the  more. 
He  kept  his  temper  perfectly,  whatever  thoughts  he  had ; 
he  rode  and  walked  with  Eleanor,  when  she  would  go, 
with  the  same  cool  and  faultless  manner ;  when  she 
would  not,  he  sometimes  let  it  pass  and  sometimes  made 
her  go ;  but  once  or  twice  he  failed  in  doing  Ihis ;  and 
recognized  the  possibility  of  Eleanor's^  ability  to  give 
him  trouble.  He  knew  his  own  power  however ;  on  the 
whole  he  liked  her  quite  as  well  for  it. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  darling?"  he  said 
one  day.  "  You  are  not  like  yourself." 

"  I  am  not  happy,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  told  you  I  had 
a  doubt  unsettled  upon  my  mind ;  and  till  that  doubt 
is  put  at  rest  I  cannot  be  happy  ;  I  cannot  have  peace  ; 
you  will  take  no  pleasure  in  me." 

"Why  do  you  not  settle  it  then?"  said  Mr.  Carlisle, 
quietly. 

"  Because  I  have  no  chance.  I  have  not  a  moment  to 
think,  in  this  whirl  where  I  am  living.  If  you  would 
put  off  the  twenty-first  of  next  month  to  the  twenty-first 
of  .some  month  in  the  spring — or  summer — I  might 
have  a  breathing  place,  and  get  myself  in  order.  I  can 
not,  now." 


192  THE      OLD      KE  I.  M  K  T  . 

"  You  will  have  time  to  think,  love,  when  you  get  to 
the  Priory,"  Mr.  Carlisle  observed  in  the  same  tone. 
An  absolute  tone. 

"Yes.  I  know  how  that  would  be!"  Eleanor  an 
swered  bitterly.  "  But  I  can  take  no  pleasure  in  any 
thing, — I  cannot  have  any  rest  or  comfort, — as  long  as  I 
know  that  if  anything  happened  to  me — if  death  came 
suddenly — I  am  utterly  unready.  I  cannot  be  happy 
so." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  send  Dr.  Cairnes  to  see  you," 
said  Mr.  Carlisle.  "He  is  in  duty  bound  to  be  the 
family  physician  in  all  things  spiritual  where  they  need 
him.  But  this  is  morbid*,  Eleanor.  I  know  how  it  is. 
These  are  only  whims,  my  darling,  that  will  never  out 
live  that  day  you  dread  so  much." 

He  had  drawn  her  into  his  arms  as  he  spoke  ;  but  in 
his  touch  and  his  kiss  Eleanor  felt  or  fancied  something 
masterful,  which  irritated  her. 

"  If  I*  thought  that,  Mr.  Carlisle,"  she  said,—"  if  I 
knew  it  was  true, — that  day  would  never  come!" 

Mr.  Carlisle's  self-control  was  perfect ;  so  was  his  tact. 
He  made  no  answer  at  all  to  this  speech ;  only  gave 
Eleanor  two  or  three  more  of  those  quiet  ownership 
kisses.  No  appearance  of  discomposure  in  his  manner 
or  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke ;  still  holding  her  in  his 
arms. 

"  I  shall  know  how  to  punish  you  one  of  these  days 
for  this,"  he  said.  "  You  may  expect  to  be  laughed  at  a 
little,  my  darling,  when  you  turn  penitent.  Which  will 
not  hinder  the  moment  from  coming." 

And  so,  dismissing  the  matter  and  her  with  another 
light  touch'of  her  lips,  he  left  her. 

"  Will  it  be  so  ?"  thought  Eleanor.  "  Shall  I  be  so 
within  his  control,  that  I  shall  even  sue  to  him  to  forget 
and  pardon  this  word  of  my  true  indignation  ?  Once 
his  wife — once  let  the  twenty-first  of  December  come — 


IN'FEKPLEXITIES.  193 

and  there  will  be  no  more  help  for  me.     What  shall  1 
do?" 

She  was  desperate,  but  she  saw  no  opening.  She  saw 
however  the  next  day  that  Mr.  Carlisle  was  coldly  dis 
pleased  with  her.  She  was  afraid  to  have  him  remain 
so ;  and  made  conciliations.  These  were  accepted  im 
mediately  and  frankly,  but  so  at  the  same  time  as  made 
her  feel  she  had  lost  ground  and  given  Mr.  Carlisle  an 
advantage ;  every  inch  of  which  he  knew  and  took. 
Nobody  liad  seen  the  tokens  of  any  part  of  all  this  pas 
sage  of  arms;  in  three  days  all  was  just  as  it  had  been, 
except  Eleanor's  lost  ground.  And  three  days  more 
were  gone  before  the  twenty-first  of  December.  . 


CHAPTEE    X. 

"  And.  once  wed, 

So  just  a  man  and  gentle,  could  not  choose 
But  make  my  life  as  smooth  as  marriage-ring." 

"  MACINTOSH,  do  you  ever  condescend  to  do  such  a 
thing  as  walk  ? — take  a  walk,  I  mean  ?" 

"  You  may  command  me, — "  he  answered  somewhat 
lazily. 

"  May  I  ?  For  the  walk ;  but  I  want  further  to  make 
a  visit  in  the  village." 

"  You  may  make  twenty,  if  you  feel  inclined.  I  will 
order  the  horses  to  meet  us  there — shall  I  ?  or  do  you 
not  wish  to  do  anything  but  walk  to-day  ?" 

"  O  yes.     After  my  visit  is  paid,  I  shall  be  ready." 

"  But  it  will  be  very  inconvenient  to  walk  so  far  in 
your  habit.  Can  you  manage  that  ? 

"  I  expect  to  enlighten  you  a  good  deal  as  to  a  wo 
man's  power  of  managing,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Is  that  a  warning  ?"  said  he,  making  her  turn  her 
face  towards  him.  Eleanor  gratified  him  with  one  of 
her  full  mischievous  smiles. 

"  Did  anybody  ever  tell  you,"  said  he  continuing  the 
inspection,  "  that  you  were  handsome  ?" 

"  It  never  was  worth  anybody's  while." 

"  How  was  that  ?" 

"  Simply,  that  he  would  have  gained  nothing  by  it." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  should  not,  or  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Nothing  in  the  world.  Mr.  Carlisle,  if  you  please, 
I  will  go  and  put  on  my  hat." 


AT     LUNCHEON.  195 

The  day  was  November  in  a  mild  mood  ;  pleasant 
enough  for  a  walk  ;  and  so'  one  at  least  of  the  two 
found  it.  For  Eleanor,  she  was  in  a  divided  mood ;  yet 
even  to  her  the  exercise  was  grateful,  and  brought  some 
glow  and  stir  of  spirits  through  the  body  to  the  mind. 
At  times,  too,  now,  she  almost  bent  before  what  seemed 
her  fate,  in  hopelessness  of  escaping  from  it ;  and  at 
those  times  she  strove  to  accommodate  herself  to  it  and 
tried  to  propitiate  her  captor.  She  did  this  from  a  two 
fold  motive.  She  did  fear  him,  and  feared  to  have  him 
anything  but  pleased  with  her ;  half  slumbering  that 
feeling  lay ;  another  feeling  she  was  keenly  conscious  of. 
The  love  that  he  had  for  her  ;  a  gift  that  no  woman  can 
receive  and  be  wholly  unmoved  by  it ;  the  affection  she 
herself  had  allowed  him  to  bestow,  in  full  faith  that  it 
would  not  be  thrown  away ;  that  stung  Eleanor  with 
grief  and  self-reproach  ;  and  made  her  at  times  question 
whether  her  duty  did  not  lie  where  she  had  formally  en 
gaged  it  should.  At  such  times  she  was  very  subdued 
in  gentleness  and  in  observance  of  Mr.  Carlisle's  plea- 
sui-e ;  subdued  to  a  meekness  foreign  to  her  natural  mood, 
and  which  generally,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  accompanied 
by  a  very  unwonted  sedateness  of  spirits  also  ;  something 
very  like  the  sedateness  of  despair. 

She  walked  now  silently  the  first  half  of  the  way ; 
managing  her  long  habit  in  a  way  that  she  knew  Mr. 
Carlisle  knew,  though  he  took  no  open  notice  of  it. 
The  day  was  quite  still,  the  road  footing  good.  A  slight 
rime  hung  about  the  distance ;  veiled  faintly  the  Ryth- 
dale  woods,  enshrouded  the  far-off  village,  as  they  now 
and  then  caught  glimpses  of  it,  in  its  tuft  of  sur 
rounding  trees.  Yet  near  at  hand,  the  air  seemed  clear 
and  mellow ;  there  was  no  November  chill.  It  was  a 
brown  world,  however,  through  which  the  two  walked ; 
life  and  freshness  ah1  gone  from  vegetation ;  the  leaves  in 
'  most  cases  fallen  from  the  trees,  and  where  they  still 


196  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

hung  looking  as  sear  and  withered  as  frost  and  decay 
could  make  them. 

"  Do  you  abhor  all  compliments  ?"  said  Mr.  Carlisle, 
breaking  a  silence  that  for  some  time  had  been  broken 
only  by  the  quick  ring  of  their  footsteps  upon  the  ground. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  That  is  frank  ;  yet  I  am  half  afraid  to  present  the 
one  which  is  on  my  lips." 

"  Perhaps  it"  is  not  worth  while,"  said  Eleanor,  with  a 
gleam  of  a  smile  which  was  very  alluring.  "  You  are 
going  to  tell  me,  possibly,  that  I  am  a  good  Avalker." 

*'  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  let  you  silence  me. 
No,  I  was  not  going  to  tell  you  that  you  are  a  good 
walker  ;  you  know  it  already.  The  compliment  of  beau 
ty,  that  you  scorned,  was  also  perhaps  no  news  to  you. 
What  I  admire  in  you  now,  is  something  you  do  not 
know  you  have ; — and  I  do  not  mean  you  shall,  by  my 
means." 

Eleanor's  glance  of  amused  curiosity,  rewarded  him.  • 

"  Are  you  expecting  now,  that  I  shall  ask  for  it  ?" 

"  No  ;  it  would,  not  be  like  you.  You  do  not  ask  me 
for  anything  that  you  can  help,  Eleanor.  I  shall  have  to 
make  myself  cunning  in  inventing  situations  of  need — that 
will  drive  you  to  it.  It  is  pleasanter  to  me  than  you  can 
imagine,  to  have  your  eyes  seek  mine  with  a  request  in 
them." 

Eleanor  coloured. 

"  There  are  the  fieldfares  !"  she  exclaimed  presently. 

"  What  is  there  melancholy  in  that  ?"  said  Mr.  Car 
lisle  laughingly. 

"  Nothing.     Why  ?" 

"  You  made  the  announcement  as  if  you  found  it 
so." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  time  I  saw  the  fieldfares  last, — 
when  they  were  gathering  together  preparing  for  their 
taking  flight ;  and  now  here  they  are  back  again !  It 


Al      LUNCHEON.  107 

seems  so  little  while — and  yet  it  seems  a  long  while  too. 
The  summer  has  gone." 

"  I  am  glad  it  has  !"  said  Mr.  Carlisle.  "  And  I  am 
glad  Autumn  has  had  the  discretion  to  follow  it.  I 
make  my  bow  to  the  fieldfares." 

"  You  will  not  expect  me  to  echo  that,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  No.     Not  now.     I  will  make  you  do  it  by  and  by." 

He  thought  a  good  deal  of  his  power,  Eleanor  said  to 
herself  as  she  glanced  at  him  ;  and  sighed  as  she  remem 
bered  that  she  did  so  too.  She  was  afraid  to  say  any 
thing  more.  It  had  not  been  so  pleasant  a  summer  to 
her  that  she  would  have  wished  to  live  it  over  again ; 
yet  was  she  very  sorry  to  know  it  gone,  for  more  rea 
sons  than  it  would  do  to  let  Mr.  Carlisle  see. 

"  You  do  not  believe  that  ?"  he  said,  coming  with  his 
brilliant  eyes  to  find  her  out  where  her  thoughts  had 
plunged  her.  Eleanor  eame  forth  of  them  immediately 
and  answered. 

"  No  more,  than  that  one  of  those  fieldfares,  if  you 
should  catch  it  and  fasten  a  leash  round  its  neck,  would 
say  it  was  well  done  that  its  time  of  free  flying  was 
over." 

"  My  bird  shall  soar  higher  from  the  perch  where  I 
will  place  her,  than  ever  she  ventured  before." 

"  Ay,  and  stoop  to  your  lure,  Mr.  Carlisle  !" 

He  laughed  at  this  flash,  and  took  instant  tribute  of 
the  lips  whose  sauciness  tempted  him. 

"  Do  you  wonder,"  he  said  softly,  that  I  want  to  have 
my  tassel-gentle  on  my  hand  ?" 

Eleanor  coloured  again,  and  was  wisely  silent. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  ambitious,  Eleanor." 

"  Is  that  such  a  favourite  vice,  that  you  wish  I  were?" 

"  Vice !  It  is  a  virtue,  say  rather ;  but  not  for  a 
woman,"  he  added  in  a  different  tone.  "No,  I  do  not 
wish  you  any  more  of  it,  Nellie,  than  a  little  education 
will  give." 


198  .  T  H  K     OLD     II  K  L  M  K  T  . 

"  You  are  mistaken,  though,  Macintosh.  I  am  very 
ambitious,"  Eleanor  said  gravely. 

"  Pray  in  what  line  ?  Of  being  able  to  govern 
Tippoo  without  my  help  ?" 

"  Is  it  Tippoo  that  I  am  to  ride  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  will  give  you  a  lesson.  What  line  does 
your  ambition  take,  darling  ?" 

"  I  have  a  great  ambition — higher  and  deeper  than 
you  can  think — to  be  a  great  deal  better  than  myself." 

She  said  it  lowly  and  seriously,  in  a  way  that  suffi 
ciently  spoke  her  earnestness.  It  was  just  as  well  to  let 
Mr.  Carlisle  know  now  and  then  which  way  her  thoughts 
travelled.  She  did  not  look  up  till  the  consciousness  of 
his  examining  eyes  upon  her  made  her  raise  her  own. 
His  look  was  intent  and  silent,  at  first  grave,  and  then 
changing  into  a  very  sunny  smile  witlf  the  words — 

"  My  little  Saint  Eleanor  ?"— 

They  were  inimitably  spoken  ;  it  is  difficult  to  say  how. 
The  graciousness,  and  affection,  and  only  a  very  little 
tender  raillery  discernible  with  them,  at  once  smote  and 
won  Eleanor.  What  could  she  do  to  make  amends  to 
this  man  for  letting  him  love  her,  but  to  be  his  wife  and 
give  him  all  the  good  she  could  ?  She  answered  his 
smile,  and  if  hers  was  shy  and  slight  it  was  also  so  gen 
tle  that  Mr.  Carlisle  was  more  than  content. 

"  If  you  have  no  other  ambition  than  that,"  he  said, 
"  then  the  wise,  man  is  proved  wrong  who  said  that 
moderation  is  the  sloth  of  the  soul,  as  ambition  is  its 
activity." 

"  Who  said  that  ?" 

"  Rochefoucauld,  I  believe." 

"  Like  him — "  said  Eleanor. 

"  How  is  that  ?  wise  ?" 

"  Ko  indeed ;  false." 

"  He  was  a  philosopher,  and  you  are  not  even  a  student 
n  that  school." 


AT     LUNCHEON.  199 

"  He  was  not  a  true  man  ;  and  that  I  know  by  the 
lights  he  never  knew." 

"  He  told  the  time  of  day  by  the  world's  clock,  Elea 
nor.  You  go  by  a  private  sun-dial  of  your  own." 

"  The  sun  is  right,  Mr.  Carlisle  !  He  was  a  vile  old 
maligner  of  human  nature." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  to  know  him  so  well  ?"  said 
Mr.  Carlisle,  amused. 

"  You  may  well  ask.  I  used  to  study  French  sen 
tences  out  of  him  ;  becavise  they  were  in  nice  little  de 
tached  bits ;  and  when  I  came  to  understand  him  I 
judged  him  accordingly." 

"By  the  sun.  Few  men  will  stand  that,  Eleanor. 
Give  an  instance." 

"  We  are  in  the  village." 

"  I  see  it."        • 

"  I  told  you  I  wanted  to  make  a  visit,  Macintosh." 

"  May  I  go  too  ?" 

"  Why  certainly ;  but  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  know 
what  to  do  with  yourself.  It  is  at  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Lewis, — my  old  nurse." 

"  Do  you  think  I  never  go  into  cottages  ?"  said  he 
smiling. 

Eleanor  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  him ;  how 
ever,  it  was  plain  he  would  go  with  her  into  this  one  ;  so 
she  took  him  in,  and  then  had  to  tell  who  he  was,  and 
blushed  for  shame  and  vexation  to  see  her  old  nurse's 
delighted  and  deep  curtseys  at  the  honour  done  her. 
She  made  her  escape  to  see  Jane ;  and  leaving  Mr.  Car 
lisle  to  his  own  devices,  gladly  shut  herself  into  the  little 
stairway  which  led  up  from  the  kitchen  to  Jane's  room. 
The  door  closed  behind  her,  Eleanor  let  fall  the  spirit- 
mask  she  wore  before  Mr.  Carlisle, — wore  consciously 
for  him  and  half  unconsciously  for  herself, — and  her  feet 
went  slowly  and  heavily  up  the  stair.  A  short  stairway 
it  was,  and  she  had  short  time  to  linger ;  she  did  not 


200  .  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

linger;  she  went  into  Jane's  room.  Eleanor  had  not 
been  there  since  the  night  of  her  watch. 

It  was  like  coming  out  of  the  woods  upon  an  open 
champaign,  as  she  stood  by  the  side  of  the  sick  girl. 
Jane  was  lying  bolstered  up,  as  usual ;  disease  shewed 
QO  stay  of  its  ravages  since  Eleanor  had  been  there  last ; 
all  that  was  as  it  had  been.  The  thin  cheek  with  its 
feverish  hue ;  the  unnaturally  bright  eyes ;  the  attitude 
of  feebleness.  But  the  mouth  was  quiet  and  at  rest  to 
day  ;  and  that  mysterious  region  of  expression  around 
the  eyes  had  lost  all  its  seams  and  lines  of  care  and 
anxiety ;  and  the  eyes  themselves  looked  at  Eleanor  with 
that  calm  full  simplicity  that  one  sees  in  an  infant's 
eyes,  before  care  or  doubt  has  ever  visited  them.  Elea 
nor  was  silent  with  surprise,  and  Jane  spoke  first. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Eleanor/' 

"  You  are  better,  Jane,  to-day." 

"  I  think — I  am  almost  well,"  said  Jane,  pausing  for 
breath  as  she  spoke,  and  smiling  at  the  same  time. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you  since  I  was  here  last  ? 
You  do  not  look  like  the  same." 

"  Ma'am,  I  am  not  the  same.  The  Lord's  messenger 
has  come — and  I've  heard  the  message — and  O,  Miss  Elea 
nor,  I'm  happy !" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Jane  ?"  said  Eleanor ;  though  it 
struck  coldly  through  all  her  senses  what  it  did  mean. 

"  Dear  Miss  Eleanor,"  said  Jane,  looking  at  her  loving 
ly — "  I  wish  you  was  as  happy  as  I  be !" 

"  What  makes  you  happy  ?" 

"  O  ma'am,  because  I  love  Jesus.     I  love  Jesus  !" 

"  You  must  tell  me  more,  Jane.  I  do  not  understand 
you.  The  other  night,  when  I  was  here,  you  were  not 
happy." 

"  Miss  Eleanor,  I  didn't  know  him  then.  Since  then 
I've  seen  how  good  he  is — and  how  beautiful — and  what 
he  has  done  for  me ; — and  I'm  happy !" 


AT      LUNCHEON.  201 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  more,  Jane  ?  I  want  to  under 
stand  it." 

"Miss  Eleanor,  it's  hard  to  tell.  I'm  thinking,  one 
can't  tell  another — but  the  Lord  must  just  shew  himself." 

"  What  has  he  shewn  to  you  ?"  said  Eleanor  gloomily. 
The  girl  lifted  her  eyes  with  a  placid  light  in  them,  as 
she  answered, 

"  He  has  showed  me  how  he  loves  me — and  that  he 
has  forgiven  me — O  how  good  he  is,  Miss  Eleanor ! — and 
how  he  will  take  me  home.  And  now  I  don't  want  for 
to  stay — no  more  now." 

"  You  were  afraid  of  dying,  the  other  night,  Jane." 

"That's  gone," — said  the  girl  expressively. 

"  But  how  did  it  go  ?" 

"  I  can't  say,  ma'am.  I  jus€  saw  how  Jesus  loves  me 
— and  I  felt  I  loved  him — and  then  how  could  I  be  fear 
ed,  Miss  Eleanor?  when  all's  in  his  hand." 

Eleanor  stood  still,  looking  at  the  transformed  face  be 
fore  her,  and  feeling  ready  to  sink  on  the  floor  and  cry 
out  for  very  sorrow  of  heart.  Had  this  poor  creature 
put  on  the  invisible  panoply  \vhich  made  her  dare  to  go 
among  the  angels,  while  Eleanor's  own  hand  was  empty  ? 
could  not  reach  it?  could  not  grasp  it  ?  She  stood  stil 
with  a  cold  brow  and  dark  face. 

"  Jane,  I  wish  you  could  give  me  what  you  have  go 
— so  as  not  to  lose  it  yourself." 

"  Jesus  will  give  it  to  you,  Miss  Eleanor,"  said  thfe 
girl  with  a  brightening  eye  and  smile.  "I  know  he  will." 

"  I  do  not  know  of  him,  Jane,  as  you  do,"  Eleanor 
said  gravely.  "  What  did  you  do  to  gain  this  knoAvl- 
edge?" 

"  I  ?  I  did  nought,  ma'am — what  could  I  do  ?  I  just 
laid  and  cried  in  my  bitterness  of  heart — like  the  night 
you  was  here,  ma'am  ;  till  the  day  that  Mr.  Rhys  came 
again  and  talked — and  prayed — O  he  prayed ! — and  my 
trouble  went  away  and  the  light  came.  O  Miss  Eleanor, 
9* 


202  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

if  you  would  hear  Mr.  Rhys  speak  !  I  don't  know  how  ; 
— but  if  you'd  hear  him,  you'd  know  all  that  man  can 
tell." 

Eleanor  stood  silent.  Jane  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of 
wistful  regard,  but  panting  already  from  the  exertion 
of  talking. 

"  But  how  are  you  different  to-day,  Jane,  from  what 
you  were  the  other  night  ? — except  in  being  happy." 

"  Ma'am,"  said  the  girl  speaking  with  difficulty,  for 
phe  was  excited, — "  then  I  was  blind.  Now  I  see.  I 
ain't  different  no  ways — only  I  have  seen  what  the  Lord 
has  done  for  ine — and  I  kno'w  he  loves  me — and  he's  for 
given  me  my  sins.  He's  forgiven  me ! — And  now  I  go 
singing  to  myself,  like,  all  the  day  and  the  night  too, 
'  I  love  the  Lord,  and  my  Lord  loves  me.'  " 

The  water  had  slowly  gathered  in  Jane's  eyes,  and 
the  cheek  flushed ;  but  her  sweet  happy  regard  never 
varied  except  to  brighten. 

"  Jane,  you  must  talk  no  more,"  said  Eleanor.  "  What 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  only  tell  me  that." 

"  Would  Miss  Eleanor  read  a  bit  ?" 

What  would  become  of  Mr.  Carlisle's  patience  ?  Elea 
nor  desperately  resolved  to  let  it  take  care  of  itself,  and 
sat  down  to  read  to  Jane  .at  the  open  page  where  the 
girl's  look  and  finger  had  indicated  that  she  wished  her 
to  begin.  And  the  very  first  words  were,  'Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled.' " 

Eleanor  felt  her  voice  choke  ;  then  clearing  it  with  a 
determined  effort  she  read  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
But  if  she  had  been  reading  the  passage  in  its  original 
Greek,  she  herself  would  hardly  have  received  less  intel 
ligence  from  it.  She  had  a  dim  perception  of  the  words 
of  love  and  words  of  glory  of  which  it  is  full ;  she  saw 
that  Mr.  Rhys's  "  helmet"  was  at  the  beginning  of  it, 
and  the  "  peace"  he  had  preached  of,  at  the  end  of  it ; 
yet  those  words  which  ever  since  the  day  they  were 


AT     LUNCHEON.  203 

spoken  have  been  a  bed  of  rest  to  every  heart  that  has 
loved  their  Author,  only  straitened  Eleanor's  heart  with 
a  vision  of  rest  afar  off. 

"  I  must  go  now,  dear  Jane,"  she  said  as  soon  as  the 
reading  was  ended.  "  What  else  would  you  like,  that 
I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

"  I'm  thinking  I  want  nothing,  Miss  Eleanor,"  said 
the  girl  calmly^  without  moving  the  eyes  which  had 
looked  at  Eleanor  all  through  the  reading.  "  But — " 

"  But  what  ?  speak  out." 

"  Mother  says  you  can  do  anything,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  go  on." 

"  Dolly's  in  trouble,  ma'am." 

"  Dolly  ?  why  she  was  to  have  been  married  to  that 
young  Earle  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  but — mother  '11  tell  you,  Miss  Eleanor 
— it  tires  me.  He  has  been  disappointed  of  his  money, 
has  James ;  and  Dolly,  she  couldn't  lay  up  none,  'cause 
of  home ; — and  she's  got  to  go  back  to  service  at 
Tenby ;  and  they  don't.know  when  they'll  come  together 
now." 

A  fit  of  coughing  punished  Jane  for  the  exertion  she 
had  made,  aud  put  a  stop  to  her  communication.  Elea 
nor  staid  by  her  till  it  was  over,  would  not  let  her  say 
another  word,  kissed  her,  and  ran  down  to  the  lower 
room  in  a  divided  state  of  spirits.  There  she  learnt 
from  Mrs.  Lewis  the  details  of  Jane's  confused  story. 
Thu  young  couple  wanted  means  to  furnish  a  house  ;  the 
mo'iey  hoarded  for  the  purpose  had  been  lent  by  James 
in  some  stress  of  his  parents'  affairs  and  could  not  now 
be  got  back  again  ;  and  the  secret  hope  of  the  family, 
Eleanor  found,  was  that  James  might  be  advanced  to 
the  gamekeeper's  place  at  Rvthdale,  which  they  took  care 
to  inform  her  was  vacant ;  and  which  would  put  the 
young  man  in  possession  of  better  wages  and  enable  him 
to  marry  at  once.  Eleanor  just  heard  all  this,  and  hur- 


204  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

ried  out  to  the  gate  where  Mr.  Carlisle  was  waiting  for 
her.  Her  interview  with  Jane  had  left  her  with  a  des 
perate  feeling  of  being  cut  off  from  the  peace  and  light 
her  heart  longed  for ;  and  yet  she  was  glad  to  see  some 
body  else  happy.  She  stood  by  Mr.  Carlisle's  side  in  a 
sort  of  subdued  mood.  There  also  stood  Miss  Broadus. 

"  Now  Eleanor !  here  you  are.  Won't  you  help  me  ? 
I  want  you  two  to  come  in  and  take  luncheon  with  us. 
I  shall  never  get  over  it  if  you  do — I  shall  be  so  pleased 
So  will  Juliana.  Now  do  persuade  this  gentleman ! — wiD 
you  ?  We'll  have  luncheon  in  a  little  while — and  thec 
you  can  go  on  your  ride.  You'll  never  do  it  if  you  dc 
not  to-day." 

"  It  is  hardly  time,  Miss  Broadus,"  said  Mr.  Carlisle 
"  We  must  ride  some  miles  before  luncheon." 

"  I  think  it  must  be  very  near  time,"  said  Miss  Broadus 
"  Do,  Eleanor,  look  and  tell  us  what  it  is.  Now  you  are 
here,  it  would  be  such  a  good  chance.  Well,  Eleanor  > 
And  the  horses  can  wait." 

"  It  is  half  past  twelve  by  me,  Miss  Broadus.  I  do 
not  know  how  it  is  by  the  world's  clock." 

"  You  can  not  take  her  word,"  said  Mr.  Carlisle,  pre 
paring  to  mount  Eleanor.  "  She  goes  by  an  old-fashioned 
thing,  that  is  always  behind  the  time— or  in  advance 
of  it." 

"  Well,  I  declare  !"  said  Miss  Broadus.  "  That  beau 
tiful  little  watch  Mr.  Powle  gave  her !  Then  you  will 
come  in  after  your  ride  ?" 

If  they  were  near  enough  at  luncheon  time,  Mr.  Car 
lisle  promised  that  should  be  done ;  and  leaving  Miss 
Broadus  in  startled  admiration  of  their  horses,  the  riders 
set  forth.  A  new  ride  was  promised  Eleanor;  they 
struck  forward  beyond  Wiglands,  leaving  the  road  to 
Rythdale  on  the  left  hand.  Eleanor  was  busily  meditat 
ing  on  the  question  of  making  suit  to  Mr.  Carlisle  in 
James  Earle's  favour ;  but  not  as  a  question  to  be  decid- 


A  T     L  U  N*  C  H  E  O  N  .  .          205 

ed ;  she  had  resolved  she  would  not  do  it,  and  was  think 
ing  rather  how  very  unwilling  she  should  be  to  do  it ; 
sensible  at  the  same  time  that  much  power  was  in  her 
hands  to  do  good  and  give  relief,  of  many  kinds ;  but 
fixed  in  the  mind  that  so  long  as  she  had  not  the  absolute 
right  and  duty  of  Mr.  Carlisle's  wife,  she  would  not  as 
sume  it.  Yet  between  pride  and  benevolence  Eleanor's 
ride  was  likely  to  be  scarce  a  pleasant  one.  It  was  ex 
tremely  silent,  for  which  Tippoo's  behaviour  on  this 
occasion  gave  no  excuse.  He  was  as  gentle  as  the  day. 

"  What  did  you  fipd  in  that  cottage  to  give  your 
thoughts  so  profound  a  turn  ?"  said  Mr.  Carlisle  at  last. 

"  A  sick  girl." 

"  Cottages  do  not  seem  to  agree  with  you,  Eleanor." 

"  That  would  be  unfortunate,"  said  Eleanor  rousing 
up,  "  for  the  people  in  them  seem  to  want  me  very 
much." 

"  Do  not  let  that  impose  on  you,"  said  Mr.  Carlisle 
smiling.  "  Sj  leaking  of  cottages — two  of  my  cottages 
at  Rythmoor  are  empty  still." 

"  O  are  they ! — "  Eleanor  exclaimed  with  sudden 
life. 

"  What  then  ?" 

"  Is  there  anybody  you  mean  to  put  in  them,  Mr. 
Carlisle  ?" 

"  No.     Is  there  anybody  you  mean  to  put  in  them  ?" 

"  I  know  just  who  would  like  to  have  one." 

"  Then  I  know  just  who  shall  have  it — or  I  shall  kno.w, 
when  you  have  told  me." 

Did  he  smile  to  himself  that  his  bait  had  taken  ?  He 
did  not  smile  outwardly.  Riding  close  up  to  her,  he 
listened  with  a  bright  face  to  the  story  which  Eleanor 
gave  with  a  brighter.  She  had  a  private  smile  at  herself. 
Where  were  her  scruples  now  ?  There  was  no  help 
for  it. 

"  It  is  one  of  your — one  of  the  under  gardeners  at 


206  T  H  E     O  L  I)      II  K  I-  M  K  'I  . 

Rythdale  ;  his  name  is  James  Earle.  I  believe  he  is  a 
good  fellow." 

"  We  will  suppose  that.  What  has  he  done  to  enlist 
your  sympathy  ?" 

"  He  wants  to  marry  a  sister  of  this  girl  I  have  been 
to  see.  They  have  been  long  betrothed  ;  and  James  has 
been  laying  up  money  to  set  up  housekeeping.  They 
were  to  have  been  married  "this  autumn, — now  ; — but 
James  had  lent  all  his  earnings  to  get  his  old  father  out 
of  some  distress,  and  they  are  not  forthcoming  ;  and  all 
Dolly's  earnings  go  to  support  hers." 

"  And  what  would  you  like  to  do  for  them,  Eleanor  ?" 

Eleanor  coloured  now,  but  she  could  not  go  back. 
"  If  you  think  well  of  Earle,  and  would  like  to  have  him 
in  one  of  the  empty  cottages  at  Rythmoor,  I  should  be 
glad." 

"  They  shall  go  in,  the  day  we  are  married ;  and  I  wish 
you  would  find  somebody  for  the  other.  Now  having 
made  a  pair  of  people  happy  and  established  a  house, 
would  you  like  a  gallop  ?" 

Eleanor's  cheeks  were  hot,  and  she  would  very  much ; 
but  she  answered,  "  One  of  Tippoo's  gallops  ?" — 

"  You  do  not  know  them  yet.  You  have  tried  only 
a  mad  gallop.  Tippoo  !"  said  Mr.  Carlisle  stooping  and 
striking  his  riding  glove  against  the  horse's  shoulder, — 
"  I  am  going  a  race  with  you,  do  you  hear  ?" 

His  own  charger  at  the  same  time  sprang  forward, 
and  Tippoo  to  match !  But  such  a  cradling  flight 
through  the  air,  Eleanor  never  knew  until  no\v.  Ther<e 
seemed  no  exertion  ;  there  was  no  jar;  a  smooth,  swift, 
arrowy  passage  over  the  ground,  like  what  birds  take 
under  the  clouds.  This  was  the  gentlest  of  gallops,  cer 
tainly,  and  yet  it  was  at  a  rare  speed  that  cleared  the 
miles  very  fast  and  left  striving  grooms  in  the  distance. 
Eleanor  paid  no  attention  to  anything  but  the  delight 
of  motion  ;  she  did  not  care  where  or  how  far  she  was  car- 


AT     LUNCHEON.  207 

ried  on  such  magical  hoofs  ;  but  indeed  the  ride  was  be 
yond  her  beat  and  she  did  not  know  the  waymarks  if  she 
had  observed  them.  A  gradual  slackening  of  this  pace 
of  delight  brought  her  back  to  the  earth  and  her  senses 
again. 

"  How  was  that  ?"  said  Mr.  Carlisle.  "  It  has  done 
you  no  harm." 

"  I  do  not  know  how  it  was,"  said  Eleanor,  caressing 
the  head  and  neck  of  the  magnificent  animal  she  rode, — 
"  but  I  think  this  creature  has  come  out  of  the  Arabian 
Nights.  Tippoo  is  certainly  an  enchanted  prince." 

"  I'll  take  care  he  is  not  disenchanted,  then,"  said  Mr. 
Carlisle.  "  That  gallop  did  us  some  service.  Do  you 
know  where  we  are  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  You  will  know  presently." 

And  accordingly,  a  few  minutes  of  fast  riding  brought 
them  to  a  lodge  and  a  gate. 

"  Is  this  Rythdale  ?"  stiid  Eleanor,  who  had  noticed 
the  manner  of  the  gate-opener. 

"  Yes,  and  this  entrance  is  near  the  house.  You  will 
see  it  in  a  moment  or  two." 

It  appeared  presently,  stately  and  lovely,  on  the  other 
side  of  an  extensive  lawn ;  a  grove  of  spruce  firs  mak 
ing  a  beautiful  setting  for  it  on  one  side.  The  riders 
passed  round  the  lawn,  through  a  part  of  the  plantations, 
and  came  up  to  the  house  at  the  before-mentioned  left 
wing.  Mr.  Carlisle  threw  himself  off  his  horse  and 
came  to  Eleanor. 

"  What  now,  Macintosh  ?" 

"  Luncheon." 

"  O,  I  do  not  want  any  luncheon.'' 

"  I  do.     And  so  do  you,  love.     Come !" 

"Macintosh,"  said  Eleanor  bending  down  with  her 
hand  resting  on  his  shoulder  to  enforce  her  request,  "  I 
do  not  want  to  go  in  !" 


208  THE     OLD     HELM  E  T  . 

"  I  cannot  take  you  any  further  without  rest  and  re 
freshment  ;  and  we  are  too  far  from  Miss  Broadus's  now. 
Come,  Eleanor !" — 

He  took  her  down,  and  then  observing  the  discom 
posed  colour  of  Eleanor's  cheek,  he  went  on  affection 
ately,  as  he  was  leading  her  in, — "  What  is  there 
formidable  in  it,  Nellie  ?  Nothing  but  my  mother  and 
Inncheon  ;  and  she  will  be  much  pleased  to  see  you." 

Eleanor  made  no  answer ;  she  doubted  it ;  at  all 
events  the  pleasure  would  be  all  on  one  side.  But  the 
reception  she  got  justified  Mr.  Carlisle.  Lady  Rythdale 
was  pleased.  She  was  even  gracious.  She  sent  Eleanor 
to  her  dressing-room  to  refresh  herself,  not  to  change 
her  dress  this  time ;  and  received  her  when  she  came 
into  her  presence  again  with  a  look  that  was  even 
benign. 

Bound,  bound, — Eleanor  felt  it  in  everything  her  eye 
lit  upon  ;  she  had  thought  it  all  over  in  the  dressing- 
room,  while  she  was  putting  in  Border  the  masses  of  hair 
which  had  been  somewhat  shaken  down  by  the  gallop. 
She  was  irritated,  and  proud,  and  afraid  of  displeasing 
Mr.  Cai'lisle ;  and  above  all  this  and  keeping  it  down, 
was  the  sense  that  she  was  bound  to  him.  He  did  love 
her,  if  he  also  loved  to  command  her ;  and  he  would  do 
the  latter,  and  it  was  better  not  to  hinder  his  doing  the 
other.  But  higher  than  this  consideration  rose  the  feel 
ing  of  right.  She  had  given  him  leave  to  love  her  ;  and 
now  it  seemed  that  his  love  demanded  of  her  all  she  had, 
if  it  was  not  all  he  wanted  ;  duty  and  observance  and  her 
own  sweet  self,  if  not  her  heart's  absorbing  affection. 
And  this  would  satisfy  Mr.  Carlisle,  Eleanor  knew  ;  she 
could  not  ease  her  conscience  with  the  thought  that  it 
would  not.  And  here  she  was  in  his  mother's  dressing- 
room  putting  up  her  hair,  and  down  stairs  he  and  hi3 
mother  were  waiting  for  her ;  she  was  almost  in  the 
family  already.  Eleanor  put  several  feelings  in  bonds. 


AT     LUNCHEON.  209 

along  with  the  abundant  tresses  of  brown  hair  which 
made  her  hands  full,  and  went  down. 

She  looked  lovely  as  she  came  in  ;  for  the  pride  and 
irritation  and  struggling  rebellion  which  had  all  been  at 
work,  were  smothered  or  at  least  kept  under  by  her 
subdued  feeling,  and  her  brow  wore  an  air  of  almost  shy 
modesty.  She  did  not  see  the  two  faces  which  were 
turned  towards  her  as  soon  as  she  appeared,  though  s.he 
saw  Mr.  Carlisle  rise.  She  came  forward  and  stood 
before  Lady  Rythdale. 

The  feeling  of  shyness  and  of  being  bound  were  both 
rather  increased  by  all  she  saw  and  felt  around  her.  The 
place  was  a  winter  parlour  or  sitting-room,  luxuriously 
hung  and  furnished  with  red,  which  made  a  rich  glow  in 
the  air.  At  one  side  a  glass  door  revealed  a  glow  of 
another  sort  from  the  hues  of  tropical  flowers  gorgeously 
blooming  in  a  small  conservatory  ;  on  another  side  of  the 
room,  where  Lady  Rythdale  sat  and  her  son  stood,  a  fire 
of  noble  logs  softly  burned  in  an  ample  chimney.  All 
around  the  evidences  of  wealth  and  a  certain  sort  of  power 
were  multiplied  ;  not  newly  there  but  native  ;  in  a  style 
of  things  very  different  from  Eleanor's  own  simple  house 
hold.  She  stood  before  the  fire,  feeling  all  this  without 
looking  up,  her  eye  resting  on  the  exquisite  mat  of  Ber 
lin  wool  on  which  Lady  Rythdale's  foot  rested.  That 
lady  surveyed  her. 

"  So  you  have  come,"  she  said.  "  Macintosh  said  he 
would  bring  you." 

Eleanor  answered  for  the  moment  with  tact  and  tem 
per  almost  equal  to  her  lover's,  "  Madam — you  know  Mr. 
Carlisle." 

How  satisfied  they  both  looked,  she  did  not  see ;  but 
she  felt  it,  throiigh  every  nerve,  as  Mr.  Carlisle  took  her 
hands  and  placed  her  in  a  great  chair,  that  she  had 
pleased  him  thoroughly.  He  remained  standing  beside 
her,  leaning  on  her  chair,  watching  her  varying  colotu 


210  THE      O  L,  I)      IIKI,  MKT. 

no  doubt.  A  few  commonplaces  followed,  and  then  the 
talk  fell  to  the  mother  and  son  who  had  some  affairs  to 
speak  about.  Eleanor's  eye  went  to  the  glass  door  be 
yond  which  the  flowers  beckoned  her ;  she  longed  to  go 
to  them  ;  but  though  feeling  that  bands  were  all  round 
her  which  were  drawing  her  and  would  draw  her  to  be 
at  home  in  that  house,  she  would  not  of  her  own  will 
take  one  step  that  way ;  she  would  assume  nothing,  not 
even  the  right  of  a  stranger.  So  she  only  looked  at  the 
distant  flowers,  and  thought,  and  ceased  to  hear  the  con 
versation  she  did  not  understand.  But  all  this  while 
Lady  Rythdale  was  taking  note  of  her.  A  pause  came, 
and  Eleanor  became  conscious  that  she  was  a  subject  of 
consideration. 

"  You  will  have  a  very  pretty  wife,  Macintosh,"  said 
the  baroness  bluntly  and  benignly. 

The  rush  of  colour  to  her  face  Eleanor  felt  as  if  she 
could  hardly  bear.  She  had  much  ado  not  to  put  up  her 
hands  like  a  child. 

"You  must  have  mercy  on  her,  mamma,"  said  Mr. 
Carlisle,  walking  off  to  a  bookcase.  "  She  has  the  un 
common  grace  of  modesty." 

"  It  is  no  use,"  said  Lady  Rythdale.  "  She  may  as 
well  get  accustomed  to  it.  Others  will  tell  her,  if  you 
do  not." 

There  was  silence.     Eleanor  felt  displeased. 

"Is  she  as  good  as  she  is  pretty?"  enquired  Lady 
Rythdale. 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Eleanor  in  a  low  voice.  The 
baroness  laughed.  Her  son  smiled.  Eleanor  was  vexed 
at  herself  for  speaking. 

"  Mamma,  is  not  Rochefoucauld  here  somewhere  ?" 

"  Rochefoucauld  ?  what  do  you  want  of  him  ?" 

"  I  want  to  call  this  lady  to  account  for  some  of  her 
opinions.  Here  he  is.  Now  Eleanor,"  said  he  tossing 


AT     LUNCH  HON.  211 

the  book  into  her  lap  and  sitting  down  beside  her, — 
"justify  yourself." 

Eleanor  guessed  he  wanted  to  draw  her  out.  She  was 
not  very  ready.  She  turned  over  slowly  the  leaves  of 
the  book.  Meanwhile  Lady  Rythdale  again  engaged 
her  son  in  conversation  which  entirely  overlooked  her ; 
and  Eleanor  thought  her  own  thoughts ;  till  Mr.  Car 
lisle  said  with  a  little  tone  of  triumph,  "  Well,  Elea 
nor?—" 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  Lady  Rythdale. 

"  Human  nature,  ma'am  ;  that  is  the  question." 

"  Only  Rochefoucauld's  exposition  of  it,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Well,  go  on.     Prove  him  false." 

"  But  when  I  have  done  it  by  the  sun-dial,  you  will 
make  me  wrong  by  the  clock." 

"  Instance !  instance  !"  said  Mr.  Carlisle  laughing. 

"  Take  this.  '  La  magnanimite  est  assez  bien  definie 
par  son  nom  meme ;  neanmoins  on  pourroit  dire  que 
c'est  le  bon  sens  de  1'orgueil,  et  la  voie  la  plus  noble 
pour  recevoir  des  louanges.'  Could  anything  be  further 
from  the  truth  than  that  ?" 

"  What  is  your  idea  of  magnanimity  ?  You  do  not 
think  '  the  good  sense  of  pride'  expresses  it  ?" 

"  It  is  not  a  matter  of  calculation  at  all ;  and  I  do 
not  think  it  is  beholden  to  anything  so  low  as  pride  for 
its  origin." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  should  not  agree  in  our  estimation 
of  pride,"  said  Mr.  Carlisle,  amused ;  "  you  had  better  go 
on  to  something  else.  The  want  of  ambition  may  indi 
cate  a  deficiency  in  that  quality — or  an  excess  of  it. 
Which,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Rochefoucauld  says,  "  La  moderation  est  comme  la 
sobriete:  on  voudroit  bien  manger  davantage,  inais  on 
craint  de  se  faire  mal." 

"What  have  you  to  say  against  that  ?" 

"  Nothing.     It  speaks  for  itself.     And  these  two  say- 


212  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

ings  alone  prove  that  he  had  no  knowledge  of  what  is 
really  noble  in  men." 

"  Very  few  have,"  said  Mr.  Carlisle  dryly. 

"  But  you  do  not  agree  with  him  ?" 

"  Not  in  these  two  instances.  I  have  a  living  confu 
tation  at  my  side. 

"  Her  accent  is  not  perfect  by  any  means,"  said  Lady 
Rythdale. 

"  You  are  right,  madam,"  said  Eleanor,  with  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation  and  a  little  colour.  ">  I  had  good  ad 
vantages  at  school,  but  I  did  not  avail  myself  of  them 
fully." 

"  I  know  whose  temper  is  perfect,"  said  Mr.  Carlisle, 
drawing  the  book  from  her  hand  and  whispering,  "  Do 
you  want  to  see  the  flowers  ?" 

He  was  not  pleased,  Eleanor  saw  ;  he  carried  her  off  to 
the  conservatory  and  walked  about  with  her  there, 
watching  her  pleasure.  She  wished  she  could  have  been 
alone.  The  flowers  were  quite  a  different  society  from 
Lady  Rythdale's,  and  drew  off  her  thoughts  into  a  dif 
ferent  channel.  The  roses  looked  sweetness  at  her  ;  the 
Dendrobium  shone  in  purity ;  myrties  and  ferns  and  some 
exquisite  foreign  plants  that  she  knew  not  by  name,  were 
the  very  prime  of  elegant  refinement  and  refreshing  sug 
gestion.  Eleanor  plucked  a  geranium  leaf  and  bruised 
it  and  thoughts  together  under  her  finger.  Mr.  Carlisle 
was  called  in  and  for  a  moment  she  was  left  to  herself. 
When  he  came  back  his  first  action  was  to  gather  a  very 
superb  rose  and  fasten  it  in  her  hair.  Eleanor  tried  to 
arrest  his  hand,  but  he  prevented  her. 

"  I  do  not  like  it,  Macintosh.  Lady  Rythdale  does 
not  know  me.  Do  not  adorn  me  here  !" 

"  Your  appearance  here  is  my  affair,"  said  he  coolly. 
"  Eleanor,  I  have  a  request  to  make.  My  mother  would 
like  to  hear  you  sing." 

"Sing!    I  am  afraid  I  should  not  please  Lady  Rythdale." 


AT     LUNCHEON.  213 

"  Will  you  please  me  ?" 

Eleanor  quitted  his  hand  and  went  to  the  door  of  com 
munication  with  the  red  parlour,  which  was  by  two  or 
three  steps,  on  which  she  sat  down.  Her  eyes  were  on 
the  floor,  where  the  object  they  encountered  was  Mr. 
Carlisle's  spurs.  That  would  not  do ;  she  buried  them 
in  the  depths  of  a  wonderful  white  lily,  and  so  sang  the 
old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence.  And  so  sweet  and 
pure,  so  natural  and  wild,  was  her  giving  of  'the  wild 
old  song,  as  if  it  could  have  come  out  of  the  throat  of 
the  flower.  The  thrill  of  her  voice  was  as  a  leaf  trem 
bles  •  on  its  stem.  No  art  there ;  it  was  unadulterated 
nature.  A  very  delicious  voice  had  been  spoiled  by  no 
master;  the  soul  of  the  singer  rendered  the  soul  of 
the  song.  The  listeners  did  both  of  them,  to  do  them 
justice,  hold  their  breath  till  she  had  done.  Then  Mr. 
Carlisle  brought  her  in,  to  luncheon,  in  triumph  ;  rose 
and  all. 

"  You  have  a  very  remarkable  voice,  my  dear  !"  said 
Lady  Rythdale.  "  Do  you  always  sing  such  melancholy 
things  ?" 

"  You  must  take  my  mother's  compliments,  Nellie,  as 
you  would  olives — it  takes  a  little  while  to  get  accus 
tomed  to  them." 

Eleanor  thought  so. 

"  Do  not  you  spoil  her  with  sweet  things,"  said  the 
baroness.  "  Come  here,  child — let  me  look  at  you.  You 
have  certainly  as  pretty  a  head  of  hair  as  ever  I  saw. 
Did  you  put  in  that  rose  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Eleanor,  blushing  with  somewhat 
besides  pleasure. 

Much  to  her  amazement,  the  next  thing  was  Lady 
Rythdale's  taking, her  in  her  arms  and  kissing  her.  IsTor 
was  Eleanor  immediately  released  ;  not  until  she  had 
been  held  and  looked  over  and  caressed  to  the  content 
of  the  old  baroness,  and  Eleanor's  cheeks  were  in  a  state 


214  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

of  furious  protestation.  She  was  dismissed  at  last  with 
the  assurance  to  Mr.  Carlisle  that  she  was  "  an  innocent 
little  thing." 

"  But  she  is  not  one  of  those  people  who  are  good  be 
cause  they  have  not  force  to  be  anything  else,  Macin 
tosh." 

"  I  hope  not." 

After  this,  however,  Eleanor  was  spared  further  dis 
cussion.  Luncheon  came  in ;  and  during  the  whole  dis 
cussion  of  that  she  was  well  petted,  both  by  the  mother 
and  son.  She  felt  that  she  could  never  break  the  nets 
that  enclosed  her;  this  day  thoroughly  achieved  that 
conclusion  to  Eleanor's  mind.  Yet  with  a  proud  sort  of 
mental  reservation,  she  shunned  the  delicacies  that  be 
longed  to  Rythdale  House,  and  would  have  made  her 
luncheon  with  the  simplicity  of  an  anchorite  on  honey 
and  bread,  as'  she  might  at  home.  She  was  very  gently 
overruled,  and  made  to  do  as  she  would  not  at  home. 
Eleanor  was  not  insensible  to  this  sort  of  petting  and 
care ;  the  charm  of  it  stole  over  her,  even  while  it  made 
her  hopeless.  And  hopelessness  said,  she  had  better 
make  the  most  of  all  the  good  that  fell  to  her  lot.  To 
be  seated  in  the  heart  of  Rythdale  House  and  in  the 
heart  of  its  master,  involved  a  worldly  lot  as  fair  at 
least  as  imagination  could  picture.  Eleanor  was  made 
to  taste  it  to-day,  all  luncheon  time,  and  when  after  lun 
cheon  Mr.  Carlisle  pleased  himself  with  making  his 
mother  and  her  quarrel  over  Rochefoucauld ;  in  a 
leisurely  sort  of  enjoyment  that  spoke  him  in  no  haste  to 
put  an  end  to  the  day.  At  last,  and  not  till  the  after 
noon  was  waning,  he  ordered  the  horses.  Eleanor  was 
put  on  Black  Maggie  and  taken  home  at  a  gentle  pace. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Eleanor  as  they  passed 
through  the  ruins,  "  why  the  House  is  called  '  the  Pri 
ory.'  The  priory  buildings  are  here." 

"  There  too,"  said  Mr.  Carlisle.     "  The  oldest  founda- 


AT     LUNCH  i:  O  N  .  215 

tions  are  really  up  there ;  and  part  of  the  superstructure 
is  still  hidden  within  the  modern  walls.  After  they  had 
established  themselves  up  there,  the  monks  became  pos 
sessed  of  the  richer  sheltered  lands  of  the  valley  and 
moved  themselves  and  their  headquarters  accordingly." 

The  gloom  of  the  afternoon  was  already  gathering 
over  the  old  tower  of  the  priory  church.  The  influence 
of  the  place  and  time  went  to  swell  the  under  current 
if  Eleanor's  thoughts  and  bring  it  nearer  to  the  sur- 
_  ice.  It  would  have  driven  her  into  silence,  but  that  she 
did  not  choose  that  it  should.  She  met  Mr.  Carlisle's 
conversation,  all  the  way,  with  the  sort  of  subdued  gen 
tleness  that  had  been  upon  her  and  which  the  day's  work 
had  deepened.  Nevertheless,  when  Eleanor  went  hi  at 
home,  and  the  day's  work  lay  behind  her,  and  Ryth- 
dale's  master  was  gone,  and  all  the  fascinations  the  day 
had  presented  to  her  presented  themselves  anew  to  her 
imagination,  Eleanor  thought  with  sinking  of  heart — 
that  what  Jane  Lewis  had  was  better  than  all.  So  she 
went  to  bed  that  night. 


CHAPTEK    XI. 

"  Why,  and  I  trust,  and  I  may  go  too.    May  I  not? 
What,  shall  I  he  appointed  hours ;  as  though,  belike, 
I  know  not  what  to  take  and  what  to  leave  ?    Ha  1" 

"  ELEANOR,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  said  Julia  one  day. 
For  Eleanor  was  found  in  her  room  in  tears. 

"  Nothing — I  am  going  to  ruin  only  ; — that  is  all." 

"  Going  to  what  ?  Why  Eleanor  — what  is  the  mat 
ter  ?" 

"  Nothing — if  not  that." 

"  Why  Eleanor  !"  said  the  little  one  in  growing  aston 
ishment,  for  Eleanor's  distress  was  evidently  great,  and 
jumping  at  conclusions  with  a  child's  recklessness, — 
"  Eleanor  ! — don't  you  want  to  be  married  ?" 

"  Hush  !  hush !"  exclaimed  Eleanor  rousing  herself 
up.  "  How  dare  you  talk  so.  I  did  not  say  anything 
about  being  married." 

"  No,  but  you  don't  seem  glad,"  said  Julia. 

"  Glad  !  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  shall  feel  glad  again 
— unless  I  get  insensible — and  that  would  be  worse." 

" Oh  Eleanor  !  what  is  it?  do  tell  me !" 

"  I  have  made  a  mistake,  that  is  all,  Julia,"  her  sister 
said  with  forced  calmness.  "  I  want  time  to  think  and  to 
get  right,  and  to  be  good — then  I  could  be  in  peace, 
I  think ;  but  I  am  in  such  a  confusion  of  everything, 
I  only  know  I  am  drifting  on  like  a  ship  to  the  rocks. 
I  can't  catch  my  breath." 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  to  the  Priory  ?''  said  the  little 
one,  4n  a  low,  awe-struek  voice. 


AT     BUOMPTON.  217 

"  I  want  something  else  first,"  said  Eleanor  evasively. 
"  I  am  not  ready  to  go  anywhere,  or  do  anything,  till  I 
feel  better." 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  Mr.  Rhys,"  said  Julia.  "  He 
Would  help  you  to  feel  better,  I  know." 

Eleanor  was  silent,  shedding  tears  quietly. 

"  Couldn't  you  come  down  and  see  him,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Child,  how  absurdly  you  talk !  Do  not  speak  of  Mr. 
Rhys  to  me  or  to  any  one  else — unless  you  want  him 
sent  out  of  the  village." 

"  Why,  who  would  send  him  ?"  said  Julia.  "  But  he 
is  going  without  anybody's  sending  him.  He  is  going 
as  soon  as  he  gets  well,  and  he  says  that  will  be  very 
soon."  Julia  spoke  very  sorrowfully.  "  He  is  well 
enough  to  preach  again.  He  is  going  to  preach  at 
Brompton.  I  wish  I  could  hear  him." 

"  When  ?" 

"  Next  Monday  evening." 

"  Monday  evening  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  shall  want  to  purchase  things  at  Brompton  Mon 
day,"  said  Eleanor  to  herself,  her  heart  leaping  up  light. 
"  I  shall  take  the  carriage  and  go." 

"  Where  will  he  preach  in  Brompton,  Julia  ?  Is  it 
anything  of  an  extraordinary  occasion  ?" 

"  No.  I  don't  know.  O,  he  will  be  in  the 1  don't 

know !  You  know  what  Mr.  Rhys  is.  He  is  something 
— he  isn't  like  what  we  are." 

"  Now  if  I  go  to  the  Methodist  Chapel  at  Brompton," 
thought  Eleanor,  "  it  will  raise  a  storm  that  will  either 
break  me  on  the  rocks,  or  land  me  on  shore.  I  will  do 
it.  This  is  my  very  last  chance." 

She  sat  before  the  fire,  pondering  over  her  arrange 
ments.  Julia  nestled  up  beside  her,  affectionate  but 
mute,  and  laid  her  head  caressingly  against  her  sister's 

10 


218  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

arm.  Eleanor  felt  the  action,  though  she  took  no  notice 
of  it.  Both  remained  still  for  some  little  time. 

"  What  would  you  like,  Julia  ?"  her  sister  began 
slowly.  "  What  shall  I  do  to  please  you,  before  I  leave 
home  ?  What  would  you  choose  I  should  give  you  ?" 

"  Give  me  f     Are  you  going  to  give  me  anything  ?" 

"  I  would  like  to  please  you  before  I  go  away — if  I 
knew  how.  Do  you  know  how  I  can  ?" 

"  O  Eleanor  !  Mr.  Rhys  wants  something  very  much 
— If  I  could  give  it  to  him ! — " 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  He  has  nothing  to  write  on — nothing  but  an  old  port 
folio  ;  and  that  don't  keep  his  pens  and  ink ;  and  for 
travelling,  you  know,  when  he  goes  away,  if  he  had  a 
writing  case  like  yours — wouldn't  it  be  nice  ?  O  Elea 
nor,  I  thought  of  that  the  other  day, .  but  I  had  no 
money.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Excellent,"  said  Eleanor.  "  Keep  your  own  coun 
sel,  Julia ;  and  you  and  I  will  go  some  day  soon,  anJ  see 
what  we  can  find." 

"  Where  will  you  go  ?  to  Brompton  ?" 

"  Of  course.  There  is  no  other  place  to  go  to.  But 
keep  your  own  counsel,  Julia." 

If  Julia  kept  her  own  counsel,  she  did  not  tro  well 
know  how  to  keep  her  sister's  ;  for  the  very  nor.t  day, 
when  she  was  at  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage,  the  8\fjlit  of 
the  old  portfolio  brought  up  her  talk  with  Eleanor  and 
all  that  had  led  to  it ;  and  Julia  out  and  spoke. 

"  Mr.  Rhys,  I  don't  believe  that  Eleanor  wants  to  be 
married  and  go  to  Rythdale  Priory." 

Mr.  Rhys's  first  movement  was  to  rise  and  see  that  the 
door  of  communication  writh  the  next  room  was  securely 
shut ;  then  as  he  sat  down  to  his  writing  again  ho  oaid 
gravely. 

"  You  ought  to  be  very  careful  how  you  maVo  such 


AT     B  It  O  MPT  ON.  219 

remarks,  Julia.  You  might  without  knowing  it,  do 
great  harm.  You  are  probably  very  much  mistaken." 

"  I  am  careful,  Mr.  Rhys.     I  only  said  it  to  you." 

"  You  had  better  not  say  it  to  me.  And  I  hope  you 
will  say  it  to  nobody  else." 

"  But  I  want  to  speak  to  somebody,"  said  Julia ;  "and 
she  was  crying  in  her  room  yesterday  as  hard  as  she 
could.  I  do  not  believe,  she  wants  to  go  to  Rythdale !" 

Julia  spoke  the  last  words  with  slow  enunciation,  like 
an  oracle.  Mr.  Rhys  looked  up  from  his  writing  and 
smiled  at  her  a  little,  though  he  answered  very  seriously. 

"  You  ought  to  remember,  Julia,  that  there  might  be 
many  things  to  trouble  your  sister  on  leaving  home  for 
the  last  time,  without  going  to  any  such  extravagant 
supposition  as  that  she  does  not  want  to  leave  it.  Miss 
Eleanor  may  have  other  cause  for  sorrow,  quite  uncon 
nected  with  that." 

"  I  know  she  has,  too,"  said  Julia.  "  I  think  Eleanor 
wants  to  be  a  Christian." 

He  looked  up  again  with  one  of  his  grave  keen  glances. 
"  What  makes  you  think  it,  Julia  ?" 

"  She  said  she  wanted  to  be  good,  and  that  she  was 
not  ready  for  anything  till  she  felt  better  ;  and  I  know 
that  was  what  she  meant.  Do  you  think  Mr.  Carlisle  is 
good,  Mr.  Rhys  ?" 

"  I  have  hardly  an  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Carlisle. 
Pray  for  your  sister,  Julia,  but  do  not  talk  about  her ; 
and  now  let  me  write." 

The  days  rolled  on  quietly  at  Ivy  Lodge,  until  Mon 
day  came.  Eleanor  had  kept  herself  in  order  and  given 
general  satisfaction.  When  Monday  came  she  announced 
boldly  that  she  was  going  to  give  the  afternoon  of  that 
day  to  her  little  sister.  It  should  be  spent  for  Julia's 
pleasure,  and  so  they  two  would  take  the  carriage  and 
go  to  Brompton  and  be  alone.  It  was  a  purpose  that 
could  not  very  well  be  interfered  with.  Mr.  Carlisle 


220  T  II  K      O  I.  D      II  E  L  M  K  T  . 

grumbled  a  little,  not  ill-humouredly,  but  withdrew 
opposition  ;  and  Mrs.  Powle  made  none,  However  the 
day  turned  very  disagreeable  by  afternoon,  and  she  pro 
posed  a  postponement. 

"  It  is  my  last  chance,"  said  Eleanor.  "  Julia  shall 
have  this  afternoon,  if  I  never  do  it  again."  So  they 
went. 

The  little  one  full  of  joy  and  anticipation  ;  the  elder 
grave,  abstracted,  unhappy.  The  day  was  gloomy  and 
cloudy  and  windy.  Eleanor  looked  out  upon  the  driving 
grey  clouds,  and  wondered  if  she  was  driving  to  her 
fate,  at  Brompton.  She  could  not  help  wishing  the  sun 
would  shine  on  her  fate,  whatever  it  was  ;  but  the  chill 
gloom  that  enveloped  the  fields  and  the  roads  was  all  in 
keeping  with  the  piece  of  her  life  she  was  traversing 
then.  Too  much,  too  much.  She  could  not  rouse  her 
self  from  extreme  depression ;  and  Julia,  feeling  it, 
could  only  remark  over  and  over  that  it  was  "  a  nasty 
day." 

It  was  better  when  they  got  to  the  town.  Brompton 
was  a  quaint  old  town,  where  comparatively  little  modernis 
ing  had  come,  except  in  the  contents  of  the  shops,  and  the 
exteriors  of  a  few  buildings.  The  tower  of  a  very  beau 
tiful  old  church  lifted  its  head  above  the  mass  of  house- 
roofs  as  they  drew  near  the  place ;  in  the  town  the 
streets  were  irregular  and  narrow  and  of  ancient  fashion 
in  great  part.  Here  however  the  gloom  of  the  day  was 
much  lost.  What  light  there  was,  was  broken  and 
shadowed  by  many  a  jutting  out  stone  in  the  old  mason- 
work,  many  a  recess  and  projecting  house-front  or  roof 
or  doorway ;  the  broad  grey  uniformity  of  dulness  that 
brooded  over  the  open  landscape,  was  not  here  to  be  felt. 
Quaint  interest,  quaint  beauty,  the  savour  of  things  old 
and  quiet  and  stable,  had  a  stimulating  and  a  soothing 
effect  too.  Eleanor  roused  up  to  business,  and  business 
gave  its  usual  meed  of  refreshment  and  strength.  She 


AT     BROMPTON.  221 

and  Julia  had  a  good  shopping  time.  It  was  a  burden 
of  love  with  the  little  one  to  see  that  everything  about 
the  proposed  purchase  was  precisely  and  entirely  what 
it  should  be ;  and  Eleanor  seconded  her  and  gave  her 
her  heart's  content  of  pleasure ;  going  from  shop  to  shop, 
patiently  looking  for  all  they  wanted,  till  it  was  found. 
Julia's  joy  was  complete,  and  shone  in  her  face.  The 
face  of  the  other  grew  dark  and  anxious.  They  had  got 
into  the  carnage  to  go  to  another  shop  for  some  trifle 
Eleanor  wanted. 

"  Julia,  would  you  like  to  stay  and  hear  Mr.  Rhys 
speak  to-night  ?" 

"  O  wouldn't  I !     But  we  can't,  you  know." 

"  I  am  going  to  stay." 

"  And  going  to  hear  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  O  Eleanor !     Does  mamma  know  ?" 

"No." 

"  But  she  will  be  frightened,  if  we  are  not  come 
home." 

"  Then  you  can  take  the  carriage  home  and  tell  her ; 
and  send  the  little  waggon  or  my  pony  for  me." 

"  Couldn't  you  send  one  of  the  men  V" 

"  Yes,  and  then  I  should  have  Mr.  Carlisle  come  after 
me.  No,  if  I  send,  you  must  go.'' 

"  Wouldn't  he  like  it  ?" 

"  It  is  no  matter  whether  he  would  like  it  or  no.  I 
am  going  to  stay.  You  can  do  as  you  please." 

"  I  would  like  to  stay !"  said  Julia  eagerly.  "  O 
Eleanor,  I  want  to  stay !  But  mamma  would  be  so 
frightened.  Eleanor  do  you  think  it  is  right  ?" 

"  It  is  right  for  me,"  said  Eleanor.  "  It  is  the  only 
thing  I  can  do.  If  it  displeased  all  the  world,  I  should 
stay.  You  may  choose  what  you  will  do.  If  the  horses 
go  home,  they  cannot  come  back  again ;  the  waggon  and 


222  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

* 

old  Roger,  or  my  pony,  would  have  to  come  for  me — 
with  Thomas." 

Julia  debated,  sighed,  shewed  great  anxiety  for  Elea 
nor,  great  difficulty  of  deciding,  but  finally  concluded 
even  with  tears  that  it  would  not  be  right  for  her  to 
stay.  The  carriage  went  home  with  her  and  her  pur 
chases;  Thomas,  the  old  coachman,  having  answered 
with  surprised  alacrity  to  the  question,  whether  he  knew 
where  the  Wcsleyan  chapel  in  Brompton  was.  He  Avas 
to  come  back  for  Eleanor  and  be  with  the  waggon  there. 
Eleanor  herself  went  to  spend  the  intermediate  time  be 
fore  the  hour  of  service,  and  take  tea,  at  the  house  of  a 
little  lawyer  in  the  town  whom  her  father  employed,  and 
whose  wife  she  knew  would  be  overjoyed  at  the  honour 
thus  done  her.  It  was  not  perhaps  the  best  choice  of  a 
resting-place  that  Eleanor  could  have  made  ;  for  it  Avas 
a  sure  and  certain  fountain  head  of  gossip  ;  but  she  Avas 
in  no  mood  to  care  for  that  just  now,  aud  desired  above 
all  things,  not  to  take  shelter  in  any  house  where  a  mes 
sage  or  an  emissary  from  the  Lodge  or  the  Priory  would 
be  likely  to  find  her  ;  nor  in  one  Avhere  her  proceedings 
Avould  be  graATely  looked  into.  At  Mrs.  Pinchbeck's 
hospitable  tea-table  she  was  very  secure  from  both. 
There  was  nothing  but  sweetmeats  there ! 

Mrs.  Pinchbeck  was  a  lively  lady,  in  a  profusion  of  lit 
tle  fair  curls  all  over  her  head  and  a  piece  of  flannel  round 
her  throat.  She  was  very  voluble,  though  her  voice  was 
very  hoarse.  Indeed  she  left  nothing  untold  that  there 
was  time  to  tell.  She  gave  Eleanor  an  account  of  all 
Brompton's  doings  ;  of  her  own ;  of  Mr.  Pinchbeck's  ; 
and  of  the  doings  of  young  Master  Pinchbeck,  who  Avas 
happily  in  bed,  and  Avho  she  declared,  when  not  in  bed  AA~as 
loo  much  for  her.  -  MeanAvhile  Mr.  Pinchbeck,  who  was 
a  black-haired,  ordinarily  somewhat  grim  looking  man, 
now  with  his  grimness  all  gilded  in  smiles,  pressed  the 
sweetmeats ;  and  looked  his  beaming  delight  at  the  oc- 


AT     BROMPTON.  223 

casion.  Eleanor  felt  miserably  out  of  place ;  even  Mrs. 
Pinchbeck's  flannel  round  her  throat  helped  her  to  ques 
tion  whether  she  were  not  altogether  wrong  and  mis 
taken  in  her  present  undertaking.  But  though  she  felt 
miserable,  and  even  trembled  with  a  sort  of  speculative 
doubt  that  came  over  her,  she  did  not  in  the  least  hesi 
tate  in  her  course.  Eleanor  was  not  made  of  that  stuff. 
Certainly  she  was  where  she  had  no  business  to  be,  at 
Mrs.  Pinchbeck's  tea-table,  and  Mr.  Pinchbeck  had  no 
business  to  be  offering  her  sweetmeats ;  but  it  was  a 
miserable  necessity  of  the  straits  to  which  she  found 
herself  driven. '  She  must  go  to  the  Wesleyan  chapel 
that  evening ;  she  would,  coute  qui  coute.  There  she 
dared  public  opinion ;  the  opinion  of  the  Priory  and 
the  Lodge.  Here,  she  confessed  said  opinion  Avas  right. 
One  good  effect  of  the  vocal  entertainment  to  which 
she  was  subjected,  was  that  Eleanor  herself  was  not 
called  upon  for  many  words.  She  listened,  and  tasted 
sweetmeats ;  that  was  enough,  and  the  Pinchbecks  were 
satisfied.  When  the  time  of  durance  was  over,  for  she 
was  nervously  impatient,  and  the  hour  of  the  chapel  ser 
vice  was  come,  Eleanor  had  not  a  little  difficulty  to 
escape  from  the  offers  of  attendance  and  of  service 
which  both  her  host  and  hostess  pressed  upon  her.  If 
her  carriage  was  to  meet  her  at  a  little  distance,  let  Mr. 
Pinchbeck  by  all  means  see  her  into  it ;  and  if  it  was 
not  yet  come,  at .  least  let  her  wait  where  she  was  while 
Mr.  P.  went  to  make  inquiries.  Or  stay  all  night !  Mrs. 
Pinchbeck  would  be  delighted.  By  steady  determina 
tion  Eleanor  at  last  succeeded  in  getting  out  of  the 
house  and  into  the  street  alone.  Her  heart  beat  then, 
fast  and  hard ;  it  had  been  giving  premonitory  starts  all 
the  evening.  In  a  very  sombre  mood  of  mind,  she  made 
her  way  in  the  chill  wind  along  the  streets,  feeling  her 
self  a  wanderer,  every  way.  The  chapel  she  sought  was 
not  far  off;  lights  were  blazing  there,  though  the  streets 


224  THE      OLD     HEL  ME  T . 

were  gloomy.  Eleanor  made  a  quiet  entrance  into  the 
warm  house,  and  sat  down ;  feeling  as  if  the  crisis  of  her 
fate  had  come.  She  did  not  care  now  about  hiding  her 
self;  she  went  straight  up  the  centre  aisle  and  took  a 
seat  about  half  way  in  the  building,  at  the  end  of  a  pew 
already  filled  all  but  that  one  place.  The  house  was 
going  to  be  crowded  and  a  great  many  people  were  al 
ready  there,  though  it  was  still  very  early. 

The  warmth  after  the  cold  streets,  and  the  silence,  and 
the  solitude,  after  being  exposed  to  Mrs.  Pinchbeck's 
tongue  and  to  her  observation,  made  a  lull  in  Eleanor's 
mind  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  the  waywardness  of 
action  which  thought  and  feeling  often  take  in  unwonted 
situations,  she  began  to  wonder  whether  it  could  be  right 
to  be  there — not  only  for  her,  but  for  anybody.  That 
large,  light,  plain  apartment,  looking  not  half  so  stately 
as  the  saloon  of  a  country  house ;  could  that  be  a  proper 
place  for  people  to  meet  for  divine  service  ?  It  was  bet 
ter  than  a  barn,  still  was  that  a  fit  church  ?  The  win 
dows  blank  and  staring  with  white  glass;  the  woodwork 
unadorned  and  merely  painted ;  a  little  stir  of  feet 
coming  in  and  garments  rustling,  the  only  sound.  She 
missed  the  full  swell  of  the  organ,  which  itself  might 
have  seemed  to  clothe  even  bare  boards.  Nothing  of  all 
that ;  nothing  of  what  she  esteemed  dignified,  or  noble, 
or  sacred  ;  a  mere  business-looking  house,  with  that  sim 
ple  raised  platform  and  little  desk — was  Eleanor  right  to 
be  there?  Was  anybody  else?  Poor  child,  she  felt 
wrong  every  way,  there  or  not  there ;  but  these  thoughts 
tormented  her.  They  tormented  her  only  till  Mr.  Rhys 
came  in.  When  she  saw  him,  as  it  had  been  that  even 
ing  in  the  barn,  they  quieted  instantly.  To  her  mind  he 
was  a  guaranty  for  the  righteousness  of  all  in  which  he 
was  concerned;  different  as  it  might  be  from  all  to 
which  she  had  been  accustomed.  Such  a  guaranty,  that 
Eleanor's  mind  was  almost  ready  to  leap  to  the  other 


AT     BROMPTON.  225 

conclusion,  and  account  wrong  whatever  the  difference 
put  on  another  side  from  him.  She  watched  him  now, 
as  he  went  with  a  quick  step  to  the  pulpit,  or  platform 
as  she  called  it,  and  mounting  it,  kneeled  down  beside 
one  of  the  chairs  that  stood  there.  Eleanor  was  accus 
tomed  to  that  action ;  she  had  seen  clergymen  a  million 
of  times  come  into  the  pulpit,  and  always  kneel ;  but  it 
was  not  like  this.  Always  an  ample  cushion  lay  ready 
for  the  knees  that  sank  upon  it ;  the  step  was  measured ; 
the  movement  slow ;  every  line  was  of  grace  and  propri 
ety  ;  the  full-robed  form  bowed  reverently,  and  the  face 
was  buried  in  a  white  cloud  of  cambric.  Here,  a  tall 
figure,  attired  only  in  his  ordinary  dress,  went  with 
quick,  decided  step  up  to  the  place  ;  there  dropped  upon 
one  knee,  hiding  his  face  with  his  hand ;  without  seem 
ing  to  care  where,  and  certainly  without  remembering 
that  there  was  nothing  but  an  ingrain  carpet  between 
his  knee  and  the  floor.  But  Eleanor  knew  what  this 
man  was  about ;  and  an  instant  sense  of  sacredness  and 
awe  stole  over  her,  beyond  what  any  organ-peals  or  rich 
ness  of  Gothic  work  had  ever  brought.  Then  she  re 
joiced  that  she  was  where  she  was.  To  be  there,  could 
not  be  wrong. 

The  house  was  full  and  still.  The  beginning  of  the 
service  again  was  the  singing;  here  richer  and  fuller 
voiced  than  it  had  been  in  the  barn.  Somebody  else 
made  the  prayers ;  to  her  sorrow ;  but  then  Mr.  Rhys 
rose,  and  her  eye  and  ear  were  all  for  him.  She  threw 
back  her  veil  now.  She  was  quite  willing  that  he  should 
see  her  ;  quite  willing  that  if  he  had  any  message  of  help 
or  warning  for  her  in  the  course  of  his  sermon,  he  should 
deliver  it.  He  saw  her,  she  knew,  immediately.  She 
rather  fancied  that  he  saw  everybody. 

It  was  to  be  a  missionary  sermon,  Eleanor  had  under 
stood  ;  but  she  thought  it  was  a  very  strange  one.  The 
10* 


226  THE      OLD     HELMET. 

text  was,  "  Render  to  Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's ; 
and  to  God  the  things  that  are  God's." 

The  question  was,  "  What  are  the  Lord's  things  ?" 

Mr.  Rhys  seemed  to  be  only  talking  to  the  people,  as 
his  bright  eye  went  round  the  house  and  he  went  on  to 
answer  this  question.  Or  rather  to  suggest  answers. 

Jacob's  offering  of  devotion  and  gratitude  was  a  tenth 
part  of  his  possessions.  "  And  Jacob  vowed  a  vow, 
saying,  If  God  will  be  with  me,  and  will  keep  me  in  this 
way  that  I  go,  and  will  give  me  bread  to  eat,  and  rai 
ment  to  put  on,  so  that  I  come  again  to  my  father's 
house  in  peace ;  then  shall  the  Lord  be  my  God :  and 
this  stone,  which  I  have  set  for  a  pillar,  shall  be  God's 
house  ;  and  of  all  that  thou  shalt  give  me,  I  will  surely 
give  the  tenth  unto  thee." 

Mr.  Rhys  announced  this.  He  did  not  comment  upon 
it  at  all.  He  went  on  to  say,  that  the  commandment 
given  by  Moses  appointed  the  same  offering. 

"  And  all  the  tithe  of  the  land,  whether  of  the  seed 
of  the  land,  or  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree,  is  the  Lord's :  it 
is  holy  unto  the  Lord.  And  if  a  man  will  at  all  redeem 
ought  of  his  tithes,  he  shall  add  thereto  the  fifth  part 
thereof.  And  concerning  the  tithe  of  the  herd,  or  of  the 
flock,  even  of  Avhatsoever  passeth  under  the  rod,  the 
tenth  shall  be  holy  unto  the  Lord.  He  shall  not  search 
whether  it  be  good  or  bad,  neither  shall  he  change  it ; 
and  if  he  change  it  at  all,  then  both  it  and  the  change 
thereof  shall  be  holy ;  it  shall  not  be  redeemed." 

So  that  it  appeared,  that  the  least  the  Lord  would 
receive  as  a  due  offering  to  him  from  his  people,  was  a 
fair  and  full  tenth  part  of  all  they  possessed.  This  was 
required,  from  those  that  were  only  nominally  his  people. 
How  about  those  that  render  to  him  heart-service  ? 

David's  declaration,  when  laying  up  provision  for  the 
building  of  the  temple,  was  that  all  was  the  Lord's. 
"  Who  am  I,  and  what  is  my  people,  that  we  should  be 


AT     BKOMPTOX.  227 

able  to  offer  so  willingly  after  this  sort  ?  for  all  things 
come  of  thee,  and  of  thine  own  have  we  given  thee.  .  . 
O  Lord  our  God,  all  this  store  that  we  have  prepared  to 
build  thee  an  house  for  thy  holy  name  cometh  of  thine 
hand,  and  is  all  thine  own."  And  God  himself,  in  the 
fiftieth  psalm,  claims  to  be  the  one  sole  owner  and  pro 
prietor,  when  he  says,  "Every  beast  of  the  forest  is 
mine,  and  the  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills." 

But  some  people  may  think,  that  is  a  sort  of  natural 
and  providential  right,  which  the  Creator  exercises  over 
the  works  of  his  hands.  Come  a  little  closer. 

"  The  silver  is  mine,  and  the  gold  is  mine,  saith  the 
Lord  of  Hosts." — So  it  was  declared  by  his  prophet 
Haggai.  And  by  another  of  his  servants,  the  Lord  told 
the  people  that  their  own  prospering  in  the  various  goods 
of  this  world,  would  be  according  to  their  faithfulness 
in  serving  him  with  them. 

"  Will  a  man  rob  God  ?  Yet  ye  have  robbed  me. 
But  ye  say,  Wherein  have  we  robbed  thee  ?  In  tithes 
and  offerings.  Ye  are  cursed  with  a  curse  ;  for  ye  have 
robbed  me,  even  this  whole  nation. 

"  Bring  ye  all  the  tithes  into  the  storehouse,  that  there 
may  be  meat  in  mine  house,  and  prove  me  now  herewith, 
saith  the  Lord  of  hosts,  if  I  will  not  open  you  the  win 
dows  of  heaven,  and  pour  you  out  a  blessing,  that  there 
shall  not  be  room  enough  to  receive  it." 

So  that  it  is  not  grace  nor  bounty  the  Lord  receives 
at  our  hands  in  such  offerings ;  it  is  simply  his  own. 

Then  it  must  be  considered  that  those  were  the  times 
of  the  old  dispensation ;  of  an  expensive  system  of 
sacrifices  and  temple  worship ;  with  a  great  body  of  the 
priesthood  to  be  maintained  and  supplied  in  all  their 
services  and  private  household  wants.  We  live  in 
changed  times,  under  a  different  rule.  What  do  the 
Lord's  servants  owe  him  now  ? 

The  speaker  had  gone  on  with  the  utmost  quietness 


228  TUB      OLD     HELMET. 

of  manner  from  one  of  these  instances  to  another  ;  using 
hardly  any  gestures ;  uttering  only  with  slow  distinct 
ness  and  deliberation  his  sentences  one  after  the  other ; 
his  face  and  eye  meanwhile  commanding  the  whole  as 
sembly.  He  went  on  now  with  the  same  qaietness, 
perhaps  with  a  little  more  deliberateness  of  accentua 
tion,  and  an  additional  spark  of  fire  now  and  then  in  his 
glance. 

There  was  a  widow  woman  once,  who  threw  into  the 
Lord's  treasury  two  mites,  which  make  a  farthing ;  but 
it  was  all  her  living.  Again,  wre  read  that  among  the 
first  Christians,  "  all  that  believed  were  together,  and 
had  all  things  common  ;  and  sold  their  possessions  and 
goods,  and  parted  them  to  all  men,  as  every  man  had 
need."  "  The  multitude  of  them  that  believed  were  of 
one  heart,  and  of  one  soul ;  neither  said  any  of  them  that 
ought  of  the  things  which  he  possessed  was  his  own ; 
but  they  had  all  things  common." 

"Were  these  people  extravagant  ?  They  overwent  the 
judgment  of  the  present  day.  By  what  rule  shall  we 
try  them  ? 

Christ's  rule  is,  "  Freely  ye  have  received ;  freely 
give."  What  have  we  received  ? 

Friends,  "  you  know  the  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  that,  though  he  was  rich,  yet  for  your  sakes  he 
became  poor,  that  ye  through  his  poverty  might  be 
rich."  And  the  judgment  of  the  old  Christian  church 
accorded  with  this  ;  for  they  said, — "  The  love  of  Christ 
constraineth  us ;  because  we  thus  judge,  that  if  one  died 
for  all,  then  were,  all  dead ;  and  that  he  died  for  all,  that 
they  which  live  should  not  henceforth  live  unto  them 
selves,  but  unto  him  which  died  for  them,  and  rose 
again."  Were  they  extravagant  ? 

But  Christ  has  given  us  a  closer  rule  to  try  the  ques 
tion  by.  He  told  his  disciples,  "  This  is  my  command 
ment,  That  ye  love  one  another,  as  I  have  loved  you" 


AT    BEOMPTON.  229 

Does  any  one  ask  how  that  was  ?  The  Lord  tells  us  in 
the  next  breath.  It  was  no  theoretical  feeling.  "  Greater 
love  hath  no  ~man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down  hi* 
life  for  his  friends"  " A  new  commandment  I  give 
unto  you,  That  ye  love  one  another ;  as  I  have  loved 
you,  that  ye  also  love  one  another." 

Pausing  there  in  his  course,  with  fire  and  tenderness 
breaking  out  in  his  face  and  manner,  that  gave  him  a 
kind  of  seraphic  look,  the  speaker  burst  forth  into  a  de 
scription  of  the  love  of  Christ,  that  before  long  bowed 
the  heads  and  hearts  of  his  audience  as  one  man.  Sobs 
and  whispers  and  smothered  cries,  murmured  from  all 
parts  of  the  church ;  the  whole  assembly  was  broken 
down,  while  the  preacher  stood  like  some  heavenly  mes 
senger  and  spoke  his  Master's  name.  When  he  ceased, 
the  suppressed  noise  of  sobs  was  alone  to  be  heard  all 
over  the  house.  He  paused  a  little,  and  began  again 
very  quietly,  but  with  an  added  tenderness  in  his  voice. 

"  He  that  saith  he  abideth  in  him," ought  himself  also 
so  to  walk,  even  as  he  walked." — "  Hereby  perceive  we 
the  love  of  God,  because  he  laid  down  his  life  for  us  ; 
and  we  ought  to  lay  down  our  lives  for  the  brethren." 

He  paused  again  ;  every  one  there  knew  that  he  was 
ready  to  act  on  the  principle  he  enounced  ;  that  he  was 
speaking  only  of  what  he  had  proved  ;  and  the  heads  of 
the  assembly  bent  lower  still. 

Does  any  one  ask,  What  shall  we  do  now  ?  there  is 
no  temple  to  be  maintained,  nor  course  of  sacrifices  to 
be  kept  up,  nor  ceremonial  worship,  nor  Levitical  body 
of  priests  to  be  supported  and  fed.  What  shall  we  givo 
our  lives  and  our  fortunes  to  now,  if  we  give  them  ? 

"  Whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you, 
do  ye  even  so  to  them."  Is  the  gospel  dear  to  you  ? 
Is  salvation  worth  having  ?  Think  of  those  who  know 
nothing  of  it ;  and  then  think  of  Christ's  command, 
"  Feed  my  sheep."  They  are  scattered  upon  all  lands, 


230  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

the  sheep  that  he  died  for ;  who  shall  gather  them  in  ? 
In  China  they  worship  a  heap  of  ashes ;  in  India  they 
adore  monsters  ;  in  Fiji  they  live  to  kill  aftd  eat  one  an 
other  ;  in  Africa  they  sit  in  the  darkness  of  centuries, 
till  almost  the  spark  of  humanity  is  quenched  out. 
"  Whosoever  shall  call  upon  the  name  of  the  Lord  shall 
be  saved."  But  "  how  shall  they  call  on  him  in  whom 
they  have  not  believed  ?  and  how  shall  they  believe  in 
him  of  whom  they  have  not  heard  ?  and  how  shall  they 
hear  without  a  preacher  ?  and  how  shall  they  preach, 
except  they  be  sent  ?  as  it  is  written,  How  beautiful 
are  the  feet  of  them  that  preach  the  gospel  of  peace,  and 
bring  glad  tidings  of  good  things !" 

"  O  Zion,  that  bringest  good  tidings,  get  thee  up  into 
the  high  mountain:  O  Jerusalem,  that  bringest  good 
tidings,  lift  up  thy  voice  with  strength ;  lift  it  up,  bo 
not  afraid ;  say  unto  the  cities  of  Judah,  Behold  your 
God !" 

"  The  Spirit  and  the  bride  say,  come.  And  let  him 
that  heareth  say,  come.  And  let  him  that  is  athirst 
come.  And  whosoever  will,  let  him  take  the  water  of  life 
freely." 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  the  deepest  stillness,  and  in 
low  kept-under  tones,  that  the  last  words  were  spoken. 
And  when  they  ceased,  a  great  hush  still  remained  upon 
the  assembly.  It  was  broken  by  prayer ;  sweet,  solemn, 
rapt,  such  as  some  there  had  never  heard  before ;  such 
as  some  there  knew  well.  When  Mr.  Rhys  had  stopped, 
another  began.  The  whole  house  was  still  with  tears. 

There  was  one  bowed  heart  there,  which  had  divided 
subjects  of  consideration ;  there  was  one  hidden  face 
which  had  a  double  motive  for  being  hid.  Eleanor  had 
been  absorbed  in  the  entrancing  interest  of  the  time,  lis 
tening  with  moveless  eyes,  and  borne  away  from  all  her 
own  subjects  of  care  and  difficulty  on  the  swelling  tide 
of  thought  and  emotion  which  heaved  the  whole  assem- 


AT     EBOMPTON.  231 

bly.  Till  her  own  head  was  bent  beneath  its  power,  and 
her  tears  sought  to  be  covered  from  vieAV.  She  did  not 
move  from  that  attitude  ;  until,  lifting  her  head  near  the 
close  of  the  sermon,  as  soon  as  she  could  get  it  up  in 
fact,  that  she  might  see  as  much  as  possible  of  those 
wonderful  looks  she  might  never  see  again  ;  a  slight 
chance  turn  of  her  head  brought  another  idea  into  her 
mind.  A  little  behind  her  in  the  aisle,  standing  but  a 
pace  or  two  off,  was  a  figure  that  for  one  instant  made 
all  Eleanor's  blood  stand  still.  She  could  not  see  it  dis 
tinctly  ;  she  did  not  see  the  face  of  the  person  at  all ;  it 
was  only  the  merest  glimpse  of  some  outlines,  the  least 
line  of  a  coat  and  vision  of  an  arm  and  hand  resting  on 
a  pew  door.  But  if  that  arm  and  hand  did  not  belong 
to  somebody  she  knew,  in  Eleanor's  belief  it  belonged 
to  nobody  living.  It  was  not  the  colour  of  cloth  nor  the 
cut  of  a  dress  ;  it  was  the  indefinable  character  of  that 
arm  and  man's  glove,  seen  with  but  half  an  eye.  But  it ' 
made  her  sure  that  Mr.  Carlisle,  in  living  flesh  and  blood, 
stood  there,  in  the  "Wesleyau  chapel  though  it  was. 
Eleanor  cared  curiously  little  about  it,  after  the  first 
start.  She  felt  set  free,  in  the  deep  high  engagement  of 
her  thoughts  at  the  time,  and  the  roused  and  determined 
state  of  feeling  they  had  produced.  She  did  not  fear 
Mr.  Carlisle.  She  was  quite  willing  he  should  have  seen 
her  there.  It  was  what  she  wished,  that  he  should  know 
of  her  doing.  And  his  neighbourhood  in  that  place  did 
not  hinder  her  full  attention  and  enjoyment  of  every 
word  that  was  spoken.  It  did  not  check  her  tears,  nor 
stifle  the  swelling  of  her  heart  under  the  preaching  and 
under  the  prayers.  Nevertheless  Eleanor  was  conscious 
of  it  all  the  time ;  and  became  conscious  too  that  the 
service  would  before  very  long"  come  to  a  close ;  and 
then  without  doubt  that  quiet  glove  would  have  some 
thing  to  do  with  her.  Eleanor  did  not  reason  nor  stop 
to  think  about  it.  Her  heart  was  full,  full,  under  the 


232  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

appeals  made  and  the  working  of  conscience  Avith  them 
conscience  and  tenderer  feelings,  which  strove  together 
and  yet  found  no  rest ;  and  this  action  the  sight  of  Mr. 
Carlisle  rather  intensified.  Were  her  head  but  covered 
by  that  helmet  of  salvation,  under  which  others  lived 
and  walked  so  royally  secure, — and  she  could  bid  defi 
ance  to  any  disturbing  force  that  could  meet  her,  she 
thought,  in  this  world. 

It  was  while  Eleanor's  head  was  yet  bowed,  and  her 
heart  busy  with  these  struggling  feelings,  that  she  heard 
an  invitation  given  to  all  people  who  were  not  at  peace 
in  their  hearts  and  who  desired  that  Christians  should 
pray  for  them, — to  come  forward  and  so  signify  their 
wish.  Eleanor  did  not  understand  what  this  could 
mean  ;  and  hearing  a  stir  in  the  church,  she  looked  up, 
if  perhaps  her  eyes  might  give  her  information.  To  her 
surprise  she  saw  that  numbers  of  people  were  leaving 
their  seats  and  going  forward  to  what  she  would  have 
called  the  chancel  rails,  where  they  all  knelt  down.  All 
these  persons,  then,  were  in  like  condition  with  her  ;  un 
happy  in  the  consciousness  of  their  wants,  and  not  know 
ing  how  to  supply  them.  So  many !  And  so  many  will 
ing  openly  to  confess  it.  Eleanor's  heart  moved  strangely 
towards  them.  And  then  darted  into  her  head  an  im 
pulse,  quick  as  lightning  and  almost  as  startling,  that 
she  should  join  herself  to  them  and  go  forward  as  they 
were  doing.  Was  not  her  heart  mourning  for  the  very 
same  want  that  they  felt  ?  She  had  reason  enough.  No 
one  in  that  room  sought  the  forgiveness  of  God  and 
peace  with  him  more  earnestly  than  she,  nor  with  a  sorer 
heart ;  nor  felt  more  ignorant  how  to  gain  it.  Together 
with  that  another  thought,  both  of  them  acting  with  the 
swiftness  and  power  of  a  lightning  flash,  moved  Elea 
nor.  Would  it  not  utterly  disgust  Mr.  Carlisle,  if  she 
took  this  step  ?  would  he  wish  to  have  any  more  to  do 
with  her,  after  she  should  have  gone  forward  publicly 


IN     BROMPTON.  233 

to  ask  for  prayers  in  a  Wesleyan  chapel?  It  would 
prove  to  him  at  least  how  far  apart  they  were  in  all  their 
views  and  feelings.  It  would  clear  her  way  for  her ;  and 
the  next  moment,  doing  it  cunningly  that  she  might  not 
be  intercepted,  Eleanor  Powle  slipped  out  of  her  seat 
with  a  quick  movement,  just  before  some  one  else  who  was 
oming  up  the  aisle,  and  so  put  that  person  for  that  one 

cond  of  danger  between  her  and  the  waiting  figure 
whom  she  knew  without  looking  at.  That  second  was 
gained,  and  she  went  trembling  with  agitation,  yet  exult- 
ingly,  up  the  aisle  and  knelt  on  the  low  bench  where  the 
others  were. 

Mr.  Carlisle  and  escape  from  him,  had  been  Eleanor's 
one  thought  till  she  got  there.  But  as  her  knees  sank 
upon  the  cushion  and  her  head  bowed  upon  the  rails,  a 
flood  of  other  feeling  swept  over  her  and  Mr.  Carlisle 
was  forgotten.  The  sense  of  what  she  was  committing 
herself  to — of  the  open  stand  she  was  taking  as  a  sin 
ner,  and  one  who  desired  to  be  a  forgiven  sinner, — over 
whelmed  her ;  and  her  heart's  great  cry  for  peace  and 
purity  broke  forth  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 

In  the  confusion  of  Eleanor's  mind,  she  did  not  know 
in  the  least  what  w*as  going  on  around  her  in  the  church. 
She  did  not  hear  if  they  were  praying  or  singing.  She 
tried  to  pray  for  herself ;  she  knew  not  what  others  were 
doing ;  till  she  heard  some  low  whispered  words  near  her. 
That  sound  startled  her  into  attention  ;  for  she  knew  the 
accent  of  one  voice  that  spoke.  The  other,  if  one  an 
swered,  she  could  not  discern ;  but  she  found  with  a 
start  of  mingled  fear  and  pleasure  that  Mr.  Rhys  was 
speaking  separately  with  the  persons  kneeling  around 
the  rails.  She,  had  only  time  to  clear  her  voice  from 
tears,  before  that  same  low  whisper  came  beside  her. 

"  What  is  your  difficulty  ?" 

"  Darkness — confusion — I  do  not  see  what  way  to  go." 

"  Go  no  way,"  said  the  whisper  impressively,  "  until 


234  THE     OLD     II  K  I- MET. 

you  see  clearly.  Then  do  what  is  right.  That  is  the 
first  point.  You  know  that  Christ  is  the  fountain  of 
light  ?" 

"  But  I  see  none." 

"  Seek  him  trustingly,  and  obediently ;  and  then  look 
for  the  light  to  come,  as  you  would  for  the  dawning 
after  a  dark  night.  It  is  sure,  if  you  willVust  the  Lord. 
His  going  forth  is  prepared  as  the  morning."  It  is 
sure  to  come,  to  all  that  seek  him,  trust  him,  and  obey 
him.  Seek  him  in  prayer  constantly,  and  in  studying 
your  Bible  ;  and  what  you  find  to  be  your  duty,  do ; 
and  the  Lord  be  with  you !" 

He  passed  away  from  Eleanor;  and  presently  the 
whole  assembly  struck  up  a  hymn.  It  sounded  like  a 
sweet  shout  of  melody  at  the  time  ;  but  Eleanor  could 
never  recall  a  note  of  it  afterwards.  She  knew  the  ser 
vice  Avas  nearly  ended,  and  that  in  a  few  minutes  she 
must  quit  her  kneeling,  sheltered  position,  and  go  out 
into  the  world  again.  She  bent  her  heart  to  catch  all 
the  sweetness  of  the  place  and  the  time ;  for  strange  and 
confused  as  she  felt,  there  was  nevertheless  an  atmos 
phere  fragrant  with  peace  about  both.  The  hymn  came 
to  an  end ;  th%  congregation  were  dismissed,  and  Elea 
nor  perforce  turned  her  face  to  go  down  the  aisle  again. 

Her  veil  was  down  and  she  did  not  look,  but  she  knew 
without  looking  just  when  she  reached  the  spot  where 
Mr.  Carlisle  stood.  He  stood  there  yet ;  he  had  only 
stepped  a  little  aside  to  let  the  stream  of  people  go  past 
him ;  and  now  as  Eleanor  came  up  he  assumed  his  place 
by  her  side  and  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm  as  quietly  as 
if  he  had  been  waiting  there  for  her  by  appointment  all 
along.  So  he  led  her  out  to  the  carriage  in  waiting  for 
her,  helped  her  into  it,  and  took  his  place  beside  her ;  in 
silence,  but  with  the  utmost  gentleness  of  demeanour. 
The  carriage  door  was  closed,  they  drove  off ;  Eleanor's 
evening  was  over,  and  she  was  alone  with  Mr.  Carlisle. 


CHAPTEE    XII. 

Mar.     "  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of  Puritan." 

Sir  And.    "  O,  if  I  thought  that,  I'd  beat  him  like  a  dog." 

Sir  Tob.      "What,  for  being  a  Puritan  ?  thy  exquisite  reason,  dear  knight  ?" 

Sir  And.    "  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for't,  but  I  have  reason  good  enough." 

WHAT  was  to  come  now  ;  as  in  darkness  and  silence 
the  carriage  rolled  over  the  road  towards  Wiglands  ? 
Eleanor  did  not  greatly  care.  She  felt  set  free ;  out 
wardly,  by  her  own  daring  act  of  separation  ;  inwardly 
and  more  effectually  perhaps,  by  the  influence  of  the 
evening  upon  her  own  mind.  In  her  own  settled  and 
matured  conclusions,  she  felt  that  Mr.  Carlisle's  power 
over  her  was  gone.  It  was  a  little  of  an  annoyance  to 
have  him  sitting  there  ;  nevertheless  Eleanor's  mind  did 
not  trouble  itself  much  with  him.  Leaning  back  in  the 
carriage,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  impressions  of  the  scene 
she  had  been  through.  Her  companion  was  quiet  and 
made  no  demands  upon  her  attention.  Sh§  recalled  over 
and  over  the  words,  and  looks,  of  the  sermon ; — the  swell 
of  the  music — it  had  been  like  angel's  melody;  and  the 
soft  words  Avhich  had  been  so  energetic  in  their  whispered 
strength  as  she  knelt  at  the  railing.  She  remembered 
with  fresh  wonder  and  admiration,  with  Avhat  effect  the 
Bible  words  in  the  first  part  of  the  sermon  had  come 
upon  the  audience  through  that  extreme  quietness  of 
voice  and  delivery ;  and  then  with  what  sudden  fire  and 
life,  as  if  he  had  become  another  man,  the  speaker  had 
burst  out  to  speak  of  his  Master  ;  and  how  it  had  swayed 
and  bent  the  assembly.  It  was  an  entirely  new  view 
of  Mr.  Rhys,  and  Eleanor  could  not  forget  it.  In  gen 
eral,  as  she  had  always  seen  him,  though  perfectly  at 


236  THB      OLD      HELMET. 

ease  in  his  manners  he  was  very  simple  and  undemonstra 
tive.  She  had  not  guessed  there  was  such  might  in  him. 
It  awed  her  ;  it  delighted  her.  To  live  such  a  life  and 
to  do  such  work  as  that  man  lived  for, — that  was  living 
indeed!  That  was  noble,  high,  pure;  unlike  and  O 
how  far  above  all  the  manner  of  lives  Eleanor  had  ever 
seen  before.  And  such,  in  so  far  as  the  little  may  resem 
ble  the  great, — such  at  least  so  far  as  in  her  sphere  and 
abilities  and  sadly  inferior  moral  qualities  it  might  lie — 
such  in  aim  and  direction  at  least,  her  own  life  should 
be.  What  had  she  to  do  with  Mr.  Carlisle  ? 

Eleanor  never  spoke  to  him  during  the  long  drive, 
forgetting  as  far  as  she  could,  though  a  little  uneasiness 
grew  upon  her  by  degrees,  that  he  was  even  present. 
And  he  did  not  speak  to  her,  nor  remind  her  of  his  pres 
ence  otherwise  than  by  pulling  up  the  glass  on  her  side 
when  the  wind  blew  in  too  chill.  It  was  his  carriage 
they  were  in,  Eleanor  then  perceived ;  and  she  wanted 
to  ask  a  question  ;  but  on  the  whole  concluded  it  safe  to 
be  still ;  according  to  the  proberb,  Let  sleeping  dogs 
lie.  One  other  time  he  drew  her  shawl  round  her  which 
she  had  let  slip  oif. 

Mr.  Carlisfc  was  possessed  of  large  self-control  and 
had  great  perfection  of  tact;  and  he  never  shewed 
either  more  consummately  than  this  night.  "What  he  un 
derwent  while  standing  in  the  aisle  of  the  Chapel,  was 
known  to  himself;  he  made  it  known  to  nobody  else. 
He  was  certainly  silent  during  the  drive ;  that  shewed 
him  displeased  ;  but  every  movement  was  calm  as  ordi 
nary  ;  his  care  of  Eleanor  was  the  same,  in  its  mixture 
of  gentle  observance  and  authority.  He  had  laid  down 
neither.  Eleanor  could  have  wished  he  had  been  unable 
to  keep  one  or  the  other.  "Would  he  keep  her  too,  and 
everything  else  that  he  chose  ?  Nothing  is  more  sub 
duing  in  its  effect  upon  others,  than  evident  power  of 
self-command.  Eleanor  could  not  help  feeling  it,  as  she 


AT     SUPPER.  237 

stepped  out  of  the  carriage  at  home,  and  was  led  into 
the  house. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  few  minutes,  when  you  have 
changed  your  dress  ?"  her  conductor  asked. 

It  must  come,  thought  Eleanor,  and  as  well  now  as 
ever ;  and  she  assented.  Mr.  Carlisle  led  her  in.  No 
body  was  in  waiting  but  Mrs.  Powle ;  and  she  waited 
with  devouring  anxiety.  The  Squire  and  Julia  she  had 
carefully  disposed  of  in  good  time. 

"  Eleanor  is  tired,  Mrs.  Powle,  and  so  am  I,"  said  Mr. 
Carlisle.  "  Will  you  let  us  have  some  supper  here,  by 
this  fire — and  I  think  Eleanor  had  better  have  a  cup  of 
tea ;  as  I  cannot  find  out  the  wine  that  she  likes."  And 
as  Eleanor  moved  away,  he  added, — "  And  let  me  beg 
you  not  to  keep  yourself  from  your  rest  any  longer — I 
will  take  care  of  my  charge ;  at  least  I  will  try." 

Devoutly  hoping  that  he  might  succeed  to  his  wishes, 
and  not  daring  to  shew  the  anxiety  he  did  not  move  to 
gratify,  Mrs.  Powle  took  the  hint  of  his  gentle  dismis 
sion  ;  ordered  the  supper  and  withdrew.  Meanwhile 
Eleanor  went  to  her  room,  relieved  at  the  quiet  entrance 
that  had  been  secured  her,  where  she  had  looked  for  a 
storm ;  and  a  little  puzzled  \vhat  to  make  of  Mr.  Carlisle. 
A  little  afraid  too,  if  the  truth  must  be  known  ;  but  she 
fell  back  upon  Mr.  Rhys's  words  of  counsel — "  Go  no 
way,  till  you  see  clearly ;  and  then  do  what  is  right." 
She  took  off  her  bonnet  and  smoothed  her  hair ;  and 
was  about  to  go  down,  when  she  was  checked  by  the 
remembrance  of  Mr.  Carlisle's  words,  "  when  you  have 
changed  your  dress."  She  told  herself  it  was  absurd ; 
why  should  she  change  her  dress  for  that  half  hour  that 
she  would  be  up ;  why  should  she  mind  that  word  of 
intimation ;  she  called  herself  a  fool  for  it ;  nevertheless, 
while  saying  these  things  Eleanor  did  the  very  thing  she 
scouted  at.  She  put  off  her  riding  dress,  which  the 
streets  of  Brompton  and  the  Chapel  aisles  had  seen  that 


238  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

day,  and  changed  it  for  a  light  grey  drapery  that  fell 
about  her  in  very  graceful  folds.  She  looked  very  lovely 
when  she  reentered  the  drawing-room ;  the  medium 
tint  set  off  her  own  rich  colours,  and  the  laces  at  throat 
and  wrist  were  just  simple  enough  to  aid  the  whole  ef 
fect.  Mr.  Carlisle  was  a  judge  of  dress  ;  he  was  stand 
ing  before  the  fire  and  surveyed  her  as  she  came  in ;  and 
as  Eleanor's  foot  faltered  half  way  in  the  room,  he  came 
forward,  took  both  her  hands  and  led  her  to  the  fire, 
where  he  set  her  in  a  great  chair  by  the  supper-table ; 
and  then  before  he  let  her  go,  did  what  he  had  not  meant 
to  do ;  gave  a  very  frank  kiss  to  the  lips  that  were  so 
rich  and  pure  and  so  near  him.  Eleanor's  heart  had 
sunk  a  little  at  perceiving  that  her  mother  was  not  in 
the  room ;  and  this  action  was  far  from  reassuring.  She 
would  rather  Mr.  Carlisle  had  been  angry.  He  was  far 
more  difficult  to  meet  in  this  mood. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Carlisle  brought  her  chair  into  more 
convenient  neighbourhood  to  the  table,  and  set  a  plate 
before  her  on  which  he  went  on  to  place  whatever  he 
thought  fit.  "  I  know  what  you  are  wanting,"  he  said  ; 
— "  but  you  shall  not  have  a  cup  of  tea  unless  I  see  you 
eat."  And  Eleanor  eat,  feeling  the  need  of  it,  and  the 
necessity  of  doing  something  likewise. 

Mr.  Carlisle  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  wine  and 
slowly  drank  it,  watching  her.  Midway  set  it  down  ; 
and  himself  made  and  poured  out  and  sugared  and 
creamed  a  cup  of  tea  which  he  set  beside  Eleanor.  It 
was  done  in  the  nicest  way  possible,  with  a  manner  that 
any  woman  would  like  to  have  wait  on  her.  Eleanor 
tasted,  and  could  not  hold  her  tongue  any  more. 

"  I  did  not  know  this  was  one  of  your  accomplish 
ments," — she  said  without  raising  her  eyes. 

"Fbr  you" — said  Mr.  Carlisle.  "I  believe  it  will 
never  be  exercised  for  anybody  else." 

He  slowly  finished  his  wine  while  he  watched  her 


AT     SUPPER.  239 

He  eat  nothing  himself,  though  Eleanor  asked  him,  till 
she  turned  from  her  plate,  and  did  what  she  had  not 
done  till  then  but  could  no  longer  withhold  ;  let  her  eyes 
meet  his. 

"  Now,"  said  he  throwing  himself  into  an  opposite 
chair, — "  I  will  take  a  cup  of  tea,  if  you  will  make  it 
for  me." 

Eleanor  blushed — what  made  her? — as  she  set  about 
performing  this  office.  The  tea  was  cold ;  she  had  to 
make  fresh,  and  wait  till  it  was  ready ;  and  she  stood  by 
the  table  watching  and  preparing  it,  while  Mr.  Carlisle 
sat  in  his  chair  observing  hei".  Eleanor's  cheeks  flushed 
more  and  more.  There  was  something  about  this  little 
piece  of  domesticity,  and  her  becoming  the  servitor  in 
her  turn,  that  brought  up  things  she  did  not  wish  to 
think  of.  But  her  neighbour  liked  what  she  did  not 
like,  for  he  sat  as  quiet  as  a  mouse  until  Eleanor's  trem 
bling  hand  offered  him  the  cup.  She  had  to  take  a  step 
or  two  for  it,  but  he  never  stirred  to  abridge  them. 
Eleanor  sat  down  again,  and  Mr.  Carlisle  sipped  his  tea 
with  an  appearance  of  gratification. 

"  That  is  a  young  man  of  uncommon  abilities" — he 
remarked  composedly, — "  whom  we  heard  this  evening. 
Do  you  know  who  he  is,  Eleanor  ?" 

Eleanor  felt  as  if  the  sky  was  falling.  "It  is  Mr. 
Rhys — Alfred's  old  tutor- — "  she  answered,  in  a  voice 
which  she  felt  was  dry  and  embarrassed  to  the  quick 
ears  that  heard  her.  "  You  have  seen  him." 

"I  thought  I  had,  somewhere.  But  that  man  has 
power.  It  is  a  pity  he  could  not  be  induced  to  come 
into  the  Church — he  would  draw  better  houses  than 
Dr.  Cairn es.  Do  you  think  we  could  win  him  over, 
Eleanor  ?" 

"  I  believe — I  have  heard" — said  Eleanor,  "  that  he  is 
going  away  from  England.  Pie  is  going  a  missionary  to 


240  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

some  very  far  away  region."  She  was  quite  willing  Mr 
Carlisle  should  understand  this. 

"  Just  as  well,"  he  answered.  "  If  he  would  not 
come  into  his  right  place,  such  a  man  would  only  work 
to  draw  other  persons  out  of  theirs.  There  is  a  sort  oi 
popular  power  of  speech  which  wins  with  the  common 
and  uneducated  mind.  I  saw  it  won  upon  you,  Nellie ; 
how  was  that  ?" 

The  light  tone,  in  which  a  smile  seemed  but  half  con 
cealed,  disconcerted  Eleanor.  She  was  not  ashamed, 
she  thought  she  was  not,  but  she  did  not  know  how  to 
answer." 

"  You  are  a  little  tete  montee"  he  said.  " If  I  had 
been  a  little  nearer  to  yon  to-night,  I  would  have  saved 
you  from  taking  one  step  ;  but  I  did  not  fancy  that  you 
could  be  so  suddenly  wrought  upon.  Pray  how  happened 
you  to  be  in  that  place  to-night  ?'' 

"I  told  you,"  said  Eleanor  after  some  hesitation, 
"  that  I  had  an  unsatisfied  wish  of  heart  which  made  me 
uneasy — and  you  would  not  believe  me." 

"  If  you  knew  how  this  man  could  speak,  I  do  not 
wonder  at  your  wanting  to  hear  him.  Did  you  ever 
hear  him  before-?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor,  feeling  that  she  was  getting  in 
a  wrong  position  before  her  questioner.  "  I  have  heard 
him  once — I  wanted  to  hear  him  again." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  your  wish,  that  you  might 
gratify  it  safely,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  I  supposed — if  I  did — I  should  lose  my  chance  of 
gratifying  it  at  all." 

"  You  are  a  real  tete-montee"  he  said,  standing  now 
before  her  and  taking  hold  lightly  and  caressingly  of 
Eleanor's  chin  as  he  spoke.  "  It  was  well  nobody  saw 
you  to-night  but  me.  Does  my  little  wife  think  she 
can  safely  gratify  many  of  her  wishes  without  her  hus 
band's  knowledge  ?" 


AT     SUPPER.  241 

Eleanor  coloured  brightly  and  drew  herself  back. 
"  That  is  the  very  thing,"  she  said  ;  "  now  you  are  com 
ing  to  the  point.  I  told  you  I  had  wishes  with  which 
yours  would  not  agree,  and  it  was  better  for  you  to 
know  it  before  it  was  too  late." 

"  Too  late  for  what  ?" 

"  To  remedy  a  great  evil." 

"  There  is  generally  a  remedy  for  everything,"  said  Mr. 
Carlisle  coolly ;  "  and  this  sort  of  imaginative  fervour 
which  is  upon  you  is  sure  to  find  a  cold  bath  of  its  own 
in  good  time.  My  purpose  is  simply  in  future,  whenever 
you  wish  to  hear  another  specimen  of  the  kind  of  oratory 
we  have  listened  to  this  evening,  to  be  with  you  that  I 
may  protect  you." 

"  Protect  me  from  what  ?" 

"  From  going  too  far,  further  than  you  know,  in  your 
present  exaltee  state.  The  Lady  of  Rythdale  must  not 
do  anything  unworthy  of  herself,  or  of  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Carlisle  ?"  Eleanor  ex 
claimed  with  burning  cheeks.  But  he  stood  before  her 
quite  cool,  his  arms  folded,  looking  down  at  her. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  speak  ?" 

"  Certainly  !     I  do." 

"  I  will  tell  you  then.  It  would  not  accord  with  my 
wishes  to  have  my  wife  grant  whispered  consultations  in 
public  to  any  man  ;  especially  a  young  man  and  one  of 
insinuating  talents,  which  this  one  well  may  be.  I  could 
have  shot  that  man,  as  he  was  talking  to  you  to-night, 
Eleanor." 

Eleanor  put  up  her  hands  to  her  face  to  hide  its  colour 
for  a  moment.  Shame  and  anger  and  confusion  strug 
gled  together.  Had  she  done  anything  unworthy  of 
her  ?  Others  did  the  same,  but  they  belonged  to  a  dif 
ferent  class  of  persons ;  had  she  been  where  Eleanor 
Powle,  or  even  Eleanor  Carlisle,  would  be  out  of  place  ? 
And  then  there  was  the  contrasted  consciousness,  how 
11 


242  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

very  pleasant  and  precious  that  whispered  "  consultation  " 
had  been  to  her.  Mr.  Carlisle  stooped  and  took  away 
her  hands  from  her  face,  holding  them  in  his  own. 

"  Eleanor — had  that  young  man  anything  to  do  with 
those  unmanageable  wishes  you  expressed  to  me  ?" 

"  So  far  as  his  words  and  example  set  me  upon  think 
ing,"  said  Eleanor.  "  But  there  was  nothing  in  what 
was  said  to-night  that  all  the  world  might  not  hear." 

o  o 

She  rose,  for  it  was  an  uncomfortable  position  in  which 
her  hands  were  held. 

"  All  the  world  did  not  hear  it,  you  will  remember. 
Eleanor,  you  are  honest,  and  I  am  jealous — will  you  tell 
me  that  you  have  no  regard  for  this  young  man  more 
than  my  wife  ought  to  have  ?" 

"  Mr.  Carlisle,  I  have  never  asked  myself  the  ques 
tion  !"  exclaimed  Eleanor  with  indignant  eyes.  "  If  you 
doubt  me,  you  cannot  wish  to  have  anything  more  to  do 
with  me." 

"  Call  me  Macintosh,"  said  he  drawing  her  within  his 
arm. 

Eleanor  would  not.  She  would  have  freed  herself, 
but  she  could  not  without  exerting  too  much  force. 
She  stood  silent. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  he  said  in  a  gentle  changed  tone, 
"  what  words  did  pass  between  you  and  that  young 
man, — that  you  said  all  the  world  might  hear  ?" 

Eleanor  hesitated.  Her  head  was  almost  on  Mr.  Car 
lisle's  shoulder ;  his  lips  were  almost  at  her  downcast 
brow ;  the  brilliant  hazel  eyes  were  looking  with  their 
powerful  light  into  her  face.  And  she  was  his  affianced 
wife.  Was  Eleanor  free  ?  Had  this  man,  who  loved  her, 
no  rights  ?  Along  with  all  other  feelings,  a  keen  sense 
of  self-reproach  stole  in  again. 

"  Macintosh,"  she  said  droopingly,  "  it  was  entirely 
about  religious  matters — that  vou  would  laugh  at,  but 
would  not  understand." 


AT     SUPPEK.  243 

"  Indulge  me — and  try  me — "  he  said  pressing  his  lips 
first  on  Eleanor's  cheek  and  then  on  her  mouth.  She 
answered  in  the  same  tone  as  before,  drooping  in  his 
arms  as  a  weary  child. 

"  He  asked  me — as  I  suppose  he  asked  others — what 
the  difficulties  in  my  mind  were, — religious  difficulties  ; 
and  I  told  him  my  mind  was  in  confusion  and  I  did  not 
see  clearly  before  me.  He  advised  me  to  do  nothing  in 
the  dark,  but  when  I  saw  duty  clear,  then  to  do  it.  That 
was  what  passed." 

"  What  did  all  these  difficulties  and  rules  of  action 
refer  to  ?" 

"  Everything,  I  suppose,"  said  Eleanor  dioopingmore 
and  more  inwardly. 

"  And  you  do  not  see,  my  love,  what  all  this  tend 
ed  to?" 

"  I  do  not  see  what  you  mean." 

"  This  is  artful  proselytism,  Eleanor.  In  your  brave 
honesty,  in  your  beautiful  enthusiasm,  you  did  not  know 
that  the  purpose  of  all  this  has  been,  to  make  a  Metho 
dist  of  Eleanor  Powle,  and  as  a  necessary  preliminary 
or  condition,  to  break  off  her  promised  marriage  with 
me.  If  that  fellow  had  succeeded,  he  should  have  been 
made  to  feel  my  indignation — as  it  is,  I  shall  let  him  go." 

"  You  are  entirely  mistaken, — "  began  Eleanor. 

"  Am  I  ?  Have  you  not  been  led  to  doubt  whether 
you  could  live  a  right  life,  and  live  it  with  me  ?" 

"  But  would  you  be  willing  in  everything  to  let  me 
do  as  I  think  right  ?" 

"  Would  I  let  you  ?  You  shall  do  what  you  will,  my 
darling,  except  go  to  whispering  conventicles.  Assured 
ly  I  will  not  let  you  do  that.  But  when  you  tell  me 
seriously  that  you  think  a  thing  is  wrong,  I  will  never 
put  my  will  in  the  way  of  your  conscience.  Did  you 
think  me  a  Mahometan  ?  Hey  ?" 

"  No— but—" 


244  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

"  But  what  ?" 

Eleanor  only  sighed. 

"  I  think  I  have  something  to  forgive  to-night,  Elea« 
nor, — but  it  is  easy  to  forgive  you."  And  wrapping 
both  arms  round  her  now,  he  pressed  on  brow  and  lip 
and  cheek  kisses  that  were  abundantly  reconciled. 

"  My  presence  just  saved  you  to  night.  Eleanor — 
will  you  promise  not  to  be  naughty  any  more  ? — Elea 
nor  ?— " 

"I  will  try,"  burst  out  Eleanor, — "O  I  will  try  to 
do  what  is  right !  I  will  try  to  do  what  is  right !" 

And  in  bitter  uncertainty  what  that  might  be,  she 
gave  way  under  the  strain  of  so  many  feelings,  and  the 
sense  of  being  conquered  which  oppressed  her,  and  burst 
into  tears.  Still  held  fast,  the  only  hiding-place  for  her 
eyes  was  Mr.  Carlisle's  breast,  and  they  flowed  there 
bitterly  though  restrained  as  much  as  possible.  He 
hardly  wished  to  restrain  them  ;  he  would  have  been 
willing  to  stand  all  night  with  that  soft  brown  head  rest 
ing  like  a  child's  on  him.  Nevertheless  he  called  her 
to  order  with  words  and  kisses. 

"  Do  you  know,  it  is  late,"  he  said, — "  and  you  are 
tired.  I  must  send  you  off.  Eleanor  !  look  up.  Look 
up  and  kiss  me." 

Eleanor  overcame  the  passion  of  tears  as  soon  as  pos 
sible,  yet  not  till  a  few  minutes  had  passed ;  and  looked 
up ;  at  least  raised  her  head  from  its  resting-place.  Mr. 
Carlisle  whispered,  "  Kiss  me !" 

How  could  Eleanor  refuse  ?  what  could  she  do  ? 
though  it  was  sealing  allegiance  over  again.  She  was 
utterly  humbled  and  conquered.  But  there  was  a  touch 
of  pride  to  be  satisfied  first.  Laying  one  hand  on  Mr. 
Carlisle's  shoulder,  so  as  to  push  herself  a  little  back 
where  she  could  look  him  in  the  face,  with  eyes  glitter 
ing  yet,  she  confronted  him ;  and  asked,  "  Do  you 
doubt  me  now  ?" 


AT     SUPPER.  245 

Holding  her  in  both  arms,  at  just  t^il  distance,  he 
looked  down  at  her,  a  smile  as  calm  as  brilliant  playing 
all  over  his  face,  which  spoke  perfect  content  as  well  as 
secure  possession.  But  the  trust  in  his  eyes  was  as  clear. 

"  No  more  than  I  doubt  myself,"  he  answered. 

Pride  was  laid  asleep ;  and  yielding  to  what  seemed  her 
fate,  Eleanor  gave  the  required  token  of  fealty — or  sub 
jugation — for  so  it  seemed  to  her.  Standing  quite  still, 
with  bent  head  and  moveless  attitude,  the  slightest  smile 
in  the  world  upon  the  lips,  Mr.  Carlisle's  whole  air  said 
silently  that  it  was  not  enough.  Eleanor  yielded  again, 
and  once  more  touched  her  lips  to  those  of  her  master. 
He  let  her  go  then ;  lit  her  candle  and  attended  her  to 
the  foot  of  the  staircase  and  dismissed  her  with  all  care. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  is  going  to  stay  here  himself  to-night, 
and  meet  me  in  the  morning,"  thought  Eleanor  as  she 
went  up  the  stairs.  "It  does  not  matter — I  Avill  go  to 
sleep  and  forget  everything,  for  a  while." 

Would  she  ?  There  was  no  sleep  for  Eleanor  that  night, 
and  she  knew  it  as  soon  as  she  reached  her  room.  She 
set  down  her  candle  and  then  herself  in  blank  despair. 

What  had  she  done  ?  Nothing  at  all.  The  stand  she 
had  meant  to  take  at  the  beginning  of  the  evening, 
she  had  been  unable  even  to  set  foot  upon.  The  bold 
step  by  which  she  had  thought  to  set  herself  free  from 
Mr.  Carlisle,  had  only  laid  her  more  completely  at  his 
feet.  Eleanor  got  up  and  walked  the  room  in  agony. 

What  had  she  done  ?  She  was  this  man's  promised 
wife ;  she  had  made  her  own  bonds  ;%it  was  her  own 
doing ;  he  had  a  right  to  her,  he  had  claims  upon  her, 
he  had  given  his  affection  to  her.  Had  she  any  rights 
now,  inconsistent  with  his?  Must  she  not  fulfil  this 
marriage  ?  And  yet,  could  she  do  so,  feeling  as  she  did  ? 
would  that  be  right  ?  For  no  sooner  was  Eleanor  alone 
than  the  subdued  cry  of  her  heart  broke  out  again,  that 
it  could  not  be.  And  that  cry  grew  desperate.  Yet 


246  THE    OLD     n  K  r,  M  K  x . 

this  evening's  opportunity  had  all  come  to  nothing. 
Worse  than  nothing,  for  it  had  laid  an  additional  diffi 
culty  in  her  way.  By  her  window,  looking  out  into  the 
dark  night,  Eleanor  stopped  and  looked  at  this  difficulty. 
She  drew  from  its  lurking-place  in  the  darkness  of  her 
heart  the  question  Mr.  Carlisle  had  suggested,  and  con 
fronted  it  steadily. 

Had  "  that  young  man,"  the  preacher  of  this  evening, 
Eleanor's  really  best  friend,  had  he  anything  to  do  with 
her  "  unmanageable  wishes  ?"  Had  she  any  regard  for 
him  that  influenced  her  mind  in  this  struggle — or  that 
raised  the  struggle?  With  fiercely  throbbing  heart 
Eleanor  looked  this  question  for  the  first  time  in  the 
face.  "  No !"  she  said  to  herself, — "  no !  I  have  not.  I 
have  no  such  regard  for  him.  How  debasing  to  have 
such  a  doubt  raised  !  But — I  might  have — I  think  that 
is  true — if  circumstances  put  me  in  the  way  of  it.  And 
I  think,  seeing  him  and  knowing  his  superior  beauty  of 
character — how  superior  ! — has  wakened  me  up  to  the 
consciousness  of  what  I  do  like,  and  what  I  like  best ; 
and  made  me  conscious  too  that  I  do  not  love  Mr.  Car 
lisle  AS  well  as  I  ought,  to  be  his  wife — not  as*  he  loves 
me.  That  I  see  now, — too  late.  Oh,  mother,  mother ! 
why  were  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  seal  this  marriage — 
when  I  told  you,  I  told  you,  I  was  not  ready.  But  then 
I  did  riot  know  any  more  than  that.  And  now  I  cannot 
marry  him — and  yet  I  shall — and  I  do  not  know  but  I 
ought.  And  yet  I  cannot." 

Eleanor  walked  her  floor  or  stood  by  her  window  that 
live-long  night.  It  was  a  night  of  great  agony  and  dis 
tracted  searching  for  relief.  Where  should  relief  come 
from  ?  To  tell  Mr.  Carlisle  frankly  that  she  did  not  bear 
the  right  kind  of  love  towards  him,  she  knew  would  be 
the  vainest  of  expedients.  "  He  can  make  me  do  any 
thing — he  would  say  he  can  make  me  love  him ;  and  so, 
perhaps,  he  could — I  believe  he  woiild — if  I  had  not 


AT     SUPPKll.  247 

seen  this  other  man."  And  then  Eleanor  drew  the  con 
trast  between  one  person  and  the  other  ;  the  high,  pure, 
spiritual  nobleness  of  the  one,  and  the  social  and  per 
sonal  graces  and  intellectual  power  of  the  other,  all 
used  for  selfish  ends.  It  was  a  very  unprofitable  specu 
lation  for  Eleanor ;  it  left  her  further  than  ever  from  the 
conclusion,  and  distressed  her  bitterly.  From  her 
mother  she  knew  sadly  there  was  no  help  to  be  had. 
No  consideration,  of  duty  or  pleasure,  would  outweigh 
with  her  the  loss  of  a  splendid  alliance  and  the  scandal 
of  breaking  off  the  preparations  for  it.  The  Sphynx 
would  not  look  out  more  calmly  over  the  desert  waste 
of  all  things,  then  Mrs.  Powle's  fair  face  would 
overview  a  moral  desolation  more  hopeless  and  more 
cheerless,  if  but  the  pyramid  of  her  ambition  were  firmly 
planted  there.  And  Eleanor's  worst  trouble  after  all 
was  her  doubt  about  duty.  If  Mr.  Carlisle  had  not 
loved  her — but  he  did  love  her  truly  and  tenderly,  and 
she,  however  misled,  had  given  him  permission.  Could 
she  now  withdraw  it  ?  Could  she  do  anything  but,  at 
whatever,  risk,  go  on  and  meet  the  obligations  she  had 
brought  upon  herself?  Nature  cried  out  strongly  that 
it  must  not  be ;  but  conscience  and  remorse,  aided  by 
circumstances,  withstood  nature,  and  said  it  must  be  no 
other  way.  Eleanor  must  marry  Mr.  Carlisle  and  be  as 
good  to  him  as  she  could.  And  Eleanor's  whole  soul 
began  to  rise  up  stronger  and  stronger  in  protest  against 
it,  and  cry  that  she  never  would  marry  him. 

The  weary  long  night  seemed  but  as  one  thought  of 
pain ;  and  when  the  morning  broke,  Eleanor  felt  that 
she  had  grown  old. 


CHAPTEE    XIII. 

"  We  wfll  have  rings,  and  things,  and  fine  array ; 
And  kiss  me,  Kate,  we  will  be  married  o'  Sunday.' 

ELEANOR  was  too  sick  to  go  down  even  to  a  late 
breakfast ;  and  a  raging  headache  kept  off  any  inquiries 
or  remonstrances  that  Mrs.  Powle  might  have  made  to 
her  if  she  had  been  well.  Later  in  the  day  her  little 
sister  Julia  came  dancing  in. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  get  up,  Eleanor  ?  What's  the 
matter  ?  I  am  going  to  open  your  window.  You  are 
all  shut  up  here." 

Back  went  the  curtain  and  up  went  the  window ;  a 
breath  of  fresh  mild  air  came  sweetly  in,  and  Julia  danced 
back  to  the  bedside.  There  suddenly  sobered  herself. 

"  Eleanor,  aren't  you  better  ?  Can't  you  get  up  ?  It 
is  so  nice  to-day." 

Julia's  fresh,  innocent,  gay  manayr,  the  very  light 
play  of  her  waving  hair,  not  lighter  than,  the  childlike 
heart,  were  almost  too  much  for  her  sister.  They  made 
Eleanor's  heart  ache. 

"  Where  is  everybody  ?" 

"Nowhere,"  said  Julia.  *'•  I  itin  all  the  house.  Mr. 
Carlisle  went  home  after  breakfast;  and  mamma  and 
Alfred  are  gone  in  the  carriage  to  Brompton ;  and  papa 
is  out  somewhere.  Are  you  better,  Nellie  ?" 

"  I  shall  never  be  better !"  said  Eleanor.  She  turned 
and  hid  her  face. 

"Oh  why,  Eleanor  ?  What  makes  you  say  that ? 
What  is  the  matter  ?  I  knew  yesterday  you  were  not 
happy." 


IN   DOUBT.  249 

"  I  am  never  going  to  be  happy.     I  hope  you  will." 

"  I  am  happy,"  said  Julia.  "  And  you  will  be.  I 
told  Mr.  Rhys  you  were  not  happy, — and  he  said  you 
would  be  by  and  by." 

"Julia!"  said  Eleanor  raising  herself  on  her  elbow 
and  with  a  colour  spreading  all  over  her  face, — "  don't 
talk  to  Mr.  Rhys  about  me  or  my  concerns !  What 
makes  you  do  such  a  thing  ?" 

"  Why  I  haven't  anybody  else  to  talk  to,"  said  Julia. 
"  Give  me  your  foot,  and  I'll  put  on  your  stocking. 
Come !  you  are  going  to  get  up.  And  besides,  he 
thinks  a  great  deal  of  you,  and  we  pray  for  you  every 
day." 

"  Who  ?" 

"  He  does,  and  I.     Come ! — give  me  your  foot." 

"  Jle,  and  you  /"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Yes,"  said  Julia  looking  up.  "  We  pray  for  you 
every  day.  -» What's  the  matter,  Eleanor  ?" 

Her  hand  was  laid  sorrowfully  and  tenderly  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  sister  whose  face  was  again  hid  from 
her.  But  at  the  touch  Eleanor  raised  her  head. 

"  You  seem  a  different  child,  Julia,  from  what  you 
used  to  be." 

"  What's  the  matter,  Nellie  ?" — very  tenderly. 

"  I  wish  I  was  different  too,"  said  Eleanor,  springing 
out  of  bed  ;  "  and  I  want  time  to  go  away  by  myself 
and  think  it  out  and  battle  it  out,  until  I  know  just  what 
is  right  and  am  ready  to  do  it ;  and  instead  of  that, 
mamma  and  Mr.  Carlisle  have  arranged " 

"  Stop  and  sit  down,"  said  Julia  taking  hold  of  her  ; 
"  you  look  white  and  black  and  all  colours.  Wait  and 
rest,  Eleanor.'^ 

But  Eleanor  would  not  till  she  had  tried  the  refresh 
ment  of  cold  water,  and  had  put  her  beautiful  hair  in 
order ;  then  she  sat  down  in  her  dressing-gown.    Julia 
had  watched  and  now  stood  anxiously  beside  her. 
11* 


250  THE     OLD    HELMET. 

"  Oh  what  is  the  matter,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Julia.     I  do  not  knoAV  what  is  right." 

"  Have  you  asked  God  to  make  you  know  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Eleanor,  drooping. 

"  That's  what  Mr.  Rhys  always  does,  so  he  is  never 
troubled.  I  will  tell  you  what  he  says — he  says,  '  What 
time  I  am  afraid,  I  will  trust  in  thee.'  Then.he  feels 
safe,  you  know." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  cannot  go  to  the  South  Seas  with 
Mr.  Rhys.  You  talk  of  nothing  but  him." 

"I  would  like  to  go  with  him,"  said  Julia  simply. 
"  But  I  have  learned  how  to  feel  safe  too,  for  I  trust  in 
Jesus  too  ;  and  I  know  he  will  teach  me  right.  So  he 
will  teach  you,  Eleanor." 

Eleanor  bowed  her  head  on  her  hands,  and  wept  and 
wept ;  but  while  she  wept,  resolutions  were  taking  form 
in  her  mind.  Mr.  Rhys's  words  came  back  to  her — "  Go 
no  way,  till  you  see  clear."  The  renewed  thought  of  that 
helmet  of  salvation,  and  of  that  heavenly  guidance,  that 
she  needed  and  longed  for ;  so  supremely,  so  much  above 
everything  else ;  gradually  gained  her  strength  to  re 
solve  that  she  would  have  them  at  all  hazards.  She  must 
have  time  to  seek  them  and  to  be  sure  of  her  duty ;  and 
then,  she  would  do  it.  She  determined  she  would  not 
see  Mr.  Carlisle ;  he  would  conquer  her ;  she  would 
manage  the  matter  with  her  mother.  Eleanor  thought 
it  all  over,  the  opposition  and  the  difficulties,  and  re 
solved  with  the  strength  of  desperation.  She  had  grown 
old  during  this  night.  She  had  a  long  interval  of  quiet 
before  her  mother  came. 

"  Well,  Eleanor !  in  your  dressing-gown  yet,  and  only 
your  hair  done !  When  do  you  expect  to  be  down 
stairs  ?  Somebody  will  be  here  presently  and  expect  to 
see  you." 

"  Somebody  will  be  disappointed.  My  head  is  split 
ting,  mamma." 


IN     DOUBT.  251 

"  I  should  think  it  would !  after  yesterday's  gambade, 
What  did  Mr.  Carlisle  say  to  you,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?  I  thought  you  would  have  offended  him  past 
forgiveness.  I  was  relieved  beyond  all  expression  this 
morning,  at  breakfast,  when  I  saw  all  was  right  again. 
But  he  told  me  not  to  scold  you,  and  I  will  not  talk 
about  it." 

"  Mamma,  if  you  will  take  off  your  bonnet  and  sit 
down — I  will  talk  to  you  about  something  else." 

Mrs.  Powle  sat  down,  took  her  bonnet  in  her  lap, 
and  pushed  her  fair  curls  into  place.  They  were  rarely 
out  of  place ;  it  was  more  a  form  than  anything  else. 
Yet  Mrs.  Powle  looked  anxious  ;  and  her  anxiety  found 
natural  expression  as  she  said, 

"  I  wish  the  twenty-first  was  to-morrow !" 

"  That  is  the  thing  I  wish  to  speak  about.  Mamma, 
that  day,  the  day  for  my  marriage,  has  been  appointed 
too  early — I  feel  hurried,  and  not  ready.  I  want  to 
study  my  own  mind  and  know  exactly  what  I  am  doing. 
I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  have  it  put  off." 

"Put  it  off! — "  cried  Mrs.  Powle.  Language  con 
tained  no  other  words  of  equal  importance  to  be  spoken 
in  the  same  breath  with  those  three. 

"  Yes.    I  want  it  put  off." 

"  Till  when,  if  you  please.  It  might  as  well  be  dooms 
day  at  once." 

"  Till  doomsday,  if  necessary ;  but  I  want  it  put  off. 
I  do  not  stipulate  for  so  long  a  time  as  that,"  said  Elea 
nor  putting  her  hand  to  her  head. 

"  What  day  would  you  name,  in  lieu  of  the  twenty- 
first  ?  I  should  like  to  know  how  far  your  arrangements 
extend." 

"  I  want  time  to  collect  my  thoughts  and  be  ready  for 
so  great  a  change.  I  want  time  to  study,  and  think, — 
and  pray.  I  shall  ask  for  at  least  three  months." 

"  Three  months !     Till  April !     And  pray,  what  has 


252  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

ailed  your  ladyship  not  to  study  and  think  and  pray  if 
you  like,  all  these  months  that  have  passed  ?" 

"  I  have  no  chance.  My  time  is  all  taken  up.  I  can 
do  nothing,  but  go  round  in  a  whirl — till  my  head  is 
spinning." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  in  these  three  months  to 
come  ?  I  should  like  to  know  all  you  propose." 

"  I  propose  to  go  away  from  home — somewhere  that  I 
can  be  quiet  and  alone.  Then,  if  there  is  no  reason 
against  it,  I  promise  to  come  back  and  fulfil  my  engage 
ment  with  Mr.  Carlisle." 

"  Eleanor,  you  are  a  fool !"  burst  out  her  mother. 
"  You  are  a  fool,  or  worse.  How  dare  you  talk  such 
stuff  to  me  ?  I  can  hardly  believe  you  serious,  only  for 
your  face.  .  Do  you  suppose  I  will  think  for  one  moment 
of  such  a  thing  as  putting  off  the  day  ? — and  if  I  would, 
have  you  any  idea  that  Mr.  Carlisle  would  give  his  as 
sent  to  it  ?" 

"  If  you  do  not,  both  you  and  he,  I  shall  break  off  the 
marriage  altogether." 

"  I  dare  you  to  do  it !"  said  Mrs.  Powle.  "  With  the 
wedding-dresses  made,  and  almost  the  ^wedding  cake — 
every  preparation — the  whole  world  to  be  scandalized  and 
talking  at  any  delay — your  family  disgraced,  and  yourself 
ruined  for  ever ; — and  Mr.  Carlisle — Eleanor,  I  think  you 
are  crazy!  only  you  sit  there  with  such  a  wicked 
face !— " 

"  It  is  in  danger  of  being  wicked,"  said  Eleanor,  draw 
ing  both  her  hands  over  it ; — "  for  I  warn  you,  mother, 
I  am  determined.  I  have  been  hurried  on.  I  will  be 
hurried  no  further.  I  will  take  poison,  before  I  will  be 
married  on  the  twenty-first !  As  well  lose  my  soul  one 
way  as  another.  You  and  Mr.  Carlisle  must  give  me 
time — or  I  will  break  the  match  altogether.  I  will  bear 
the  consequences." 


IN     DOUBT.  253 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  him  of  this  precious  arrange 
ment  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Eleanor,  her  manner  failing  a  little. — 
"  You  must  do  it." 

"  I  thought  so  !"  said  Mrs.  Powle.  "  He  knows  how 
to  manage  you,  my  young  lady !  which  I  never  did  yet. 
I  will  just  bring  him  up  here  to  you — and  you  will  be 
like  a  whipped  child  in  three  minutes.  O  you  know  it. 
I  see  it  in  your  face.  Eleanor,  I  am  ashamed  of  you !" 

"  I  will  not  see  him  up  here,  mamma." 

"  You  will,  if  you  cannot  help  it.  Eleanor  I  wouldn't 
try  him  too  far.  He  is  very  fond  of  you — but  he  will 
be  your  husband  in  a  few  days  ;  and  he  is  not  the  sort  of 
man  I  should  like  to  have  displeased  with  me,  if  I  were 
you." 

"  He  never  will,  mamma,  unless  he  waits  three  months 
for  it." 

"  Now  I  will  tell  you  one  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Powle  ris 
ing  in  great  anger — "  I  can  put  down  my  foot  too.  I 
am  tired  of  this  sort  of  thing,  and  I  cannot  manage  you, 
and  I  will  give  you  over  to  one  who  can.  To-day  is 
Tuesday — the  twenty-first  is  exactly  one  fortnight  off. 
Well  my  young  lady,  I  will  change  the  day.  Next 
Monday  I  will  give  you  to  Mr.  Carlisle,  and  he  will  be 
your  master  ;  and  I  fancy  he  is  not  at  all  afraid  to  as 
sume  the  responsibility.  He  may  take  you  to  as  quiet  a 
place  as  he  likes ;  and  you  may  think  at  your  leisure,  and 
more  properly  than  in  the  way  you  propose.  So,  Elea 
nor,  you  shall  be  married  o'  Monday." 

Mrs.  Powle  flourished  out  with  her  bonnet  in  her  hand. 
Eleanor's  first  movement  was  to  go  after  her  and  turn 
the  key  in  the  door  securely  ;  then  she  threw  up  the  win 
dow  and  flung  herself  on  her  face  on  the  bed.  Her 
mother  was  quite  capable  of  doing  as  she  had  said,  for 
her  fair  features  covered  a  not  very  tender  heart.  Mr. 
Carlisle  would  second  her,  no  doubt,  all  the  more  eagerly 


254  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

for  the  last  night's  adventures.  Could  Eleanor  mako 
head  against  those  two  ?  And  between  Tuesday  and 
Monday  was  very  little  time  to  mature  plans  or  organize 
resistance.  Her  head  felt  like  splitting  now  indeed,  for 
very  confusion. 

"  Eleanor,"  said  Julia's  voice  gravely  and  anxiously, 
"  you  will  take  cold — mayn't  I  shut  the  window  ?" 

**  There's  no  danger.    I  am.  in  a  fever." 

"  Is  your  head  no  better  ?" 

"I  hardly  think, I  have  a  head.  There  is  nothing 
there  but  pain  and  snapping." 

"Poor  Eleanor!"  said  her  little  sister,  standing  by 
the  bedside  like  a  powerless  guardian  angel.  "  Mr.  Car- 
Use  isn't  good,  if  he  wouldn't  do  what  you  want  him." 

"  Do  not  open  the  door,  Julia,  if  anybody  knocks !" 

"  No.  But  wouldn't  he,  Eleanor,  if  you  were  to  ask 
him  ?" 

Eleanor  made  no  answer.  She  knew,  it  needed  but  a 
glance  at  last  night's  experience  to  remind  her,  that  she 
could  not  make  head  against  Mr.  Carlisle.  If  he  came 
to  talk  to  her  about  her  proposed  scheme,  ah1  was  lost. 
Suddenly  Eleanor  threw  herself  off  the  bed  and  began 
to  dress  with  precipitation. 

"  Why  are  you  better,  Eleanor  ?"  Julia  asked  in  sur 
prise. 

"  No — but  I  must  go  down  stairs.  Bring  me  my 
blue  dress,  Julia ; — and  go  and  get  me  some  geranium 
leaves — some  strong-scented  ones.  Here — go  down  the 
b'ack  way." 

No  matter  for  head-splitting.  Eleanor  dressed  in 
haste,  but  with  delicate  care  ;  in  a  dress  that  Mr.  Carlisle 
liked.  Its  colour  suited  her,  and  its  simple  make  shewed 
her  beauty ;  better  than  a  more  furbelowed  one.  The 
aromatic  geranium  leaves  were  for  her  head — but  with 
them  Julia  had  brought  some  of  the  brilliant  red  flow 
ers  ;  and  fastened  on  her  breast  where  Eleanor  could 


IN     DOUBT.  255 

feel  their  sweetness,  they  at  the  same  time  made  a  bright 
touch  of  adornment  to  her  figure.  She  was  obliged  to 
Bit  down  then  and  rest ;  but  as  soon  as  she  could  she 
went  to  the  drawing-room. 

There  were  as  usual  several  people  there  besides  the 
family;  Dr.  Cairnes  and  Miss  Broadus  and  her  sister 
making  part.  Entering  with  a  slow  quiet  movement, 
most  unlike  the  real  hurry  of  her  spirits,-  Eleanor  had 
time  to  observe  how  different  persons  were  placed  and 
to  choose  her  own  plan  of  action.  It  was  to  slip  silently 
into  a  large  chair  which  stood  empty  at  Mr.  Carlisle's 
side,  and  which  favoured  her  by  presenting  itself  as  the 
nearest  attackable  point  of  the  circle.  It  was  done  with 
such  graceful  noiselessness  that  many  did  not  at  the  mo 
ment  notice  her  ;  but  two  persons  were  quick  of  vision 
where  she  was  concerned.  Mr.  Carlisle  bent  over  her 
with  delight,  and  though  Mrs.  Powle's  fair  curls  were 
not  disturbed  by  any  sudden  motion  of  her  head,  her 
grey  eyes  dilated  with  wonder  and  curiosity  as  she  lis 
tened  to  a  story  of  Miss  Broadus  which  was  fitted  to 
excite  neither.  Eleanor  was  beyond  her,  but  she  con 
cluded  that  Mr.  Carlisle  held  the  key  of  this  extraordi 
nary  docility. 

Eleanor  sat  very  quiet  in  her  chair,  looking  lovely,  and 
by  degrees  using  up  her  geranium  leaves ;  with  which, 
she  went  through  a  variety  of  manipulations.  They 
were  picked  to  pieces  and  rubbed  to  pieces  and  their 
aromatic  essence  crushed  out  of  them  with  every  kind 
of  formality.  Mr.  Carlisle  finding  that  she  had  a  head 
ache  did  not  trouble  her  to  talk,  and  relieved  her  from 
attention ;  any  further  than  his  arm  or  hand  mounting 
guard  on  her  chair  constantly  gave.  For  it  gathered  the 
broken  geranium  leaves  out  of  her  way  and  picked  them 
up  from  her  feet.  At  last  his  hand  came  after  hers  and 
made  it  a  prisoner. 

"  You   have  a  mood  of  destructiveness  upon  you." 


256  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

said  he.  "  See  there — you  have  done  to  death  all  the 
green  of  your  bouquet." 

"  The  geranium  leaves  are  good  to  my  head,"  said 
Eleanor.  "  I  want  some  more.  Will  you  go  with  me 
to  get  them  ?" 

It  gave  her  heart  a  shiver,  the  hold  in  which  her  hand 
lay.  Though  taken  in  play,  the  hold  was  so  very  cool 
and  firm.  Her  hand  lay  there  still,  for  Mr.  Carlisle  sat 
a  moment  after  she  spoke,  looking  at  her. 

"  I  will  go  with  you — wherever  you  please,"  he  said ; 
and  putting  Eleanor's  hand  on  his  arm  they  walked  off 
towards  the  conservatory.  This  was  at  some  distance, 
and  opened  out  of  the  breakfast  room.  It  was  no  great 
matter  of  a  conservatory,  only  pretty  and  sweet.  Elea 
nor  began  slowly  to  pull  geranium  leaves. 

"  You  are  suffering,  Eleanor," — said  Mr.  Carlisle. 

"  I  do  not  think  of  it— you  need  not.  Macintosh,  I 
want  to  ask  a  favour  of  you." 

She  turned  to  him,  without  raising  her  eyes,  but  made 
the  appeal  of  her  whole  pretty  presence.  He  drew  his 
arm  round  her  and  suspended  the  business  of  geranium 
leaves. 

"  What  is  it,  my  darling  ?'' 

"  You  know,"  said  Eleanor,  "  that  when  the  twenty- 
first  of  December  was  fixed  upon — for  what  you  wished 
— it  was  a  more  hurried  day  than  I  would  have  chosen  ; 
if  the  choice  had  been  left  to  me.  I  wanted  more 
time — but  you  and  my  mother  said  that  day,  and  I  agreed 
to  it.  Now,  my  mother  has  taken  a  notion  to  make  it 
still  earlier — she  wants  to  cut  off  a  whole  week  from  me 
— she  wants  to  make  it  next  Monday.  Don't  join  with 
ner  !  Let  me  have  all  the  time  that  was  promised  me  !" 

Eleanor  could  not  raise  her  eyes  ;  she  enforced  her 
appeal  by  laying  her  hand  on  Mr.  Carlisle's  arm.  He 
drew  her  close  up  to  him,  held  her  fast,  stooped  his 
head  to  hers. 


IN     DOUBT.  257 

"  What  for,  Eleanor  ?  Laces  and  plums  can  be 
ready  as  well  Monday  as  Monday  s'ennight." 

"  For  myself,  Macintosh." 

"  Don't  you  think  of  me  ?" 

"  No !"  said  Eleanor,  "  I  do  not.  It  is  quite  enough 
that  you  should  have  your  wish  after  Monday  s'ennight 
— I  ought  to  have  it  before." 

He  laughed  and  kissed  her.  He  always  liked  any 
shew  of  spirit  in  Eleanor. 

"  My  darling,  what  difference  does  a  week  make  ?" 

"  Just  the  difference  of  a  week  ;  and  more  than  that 
in  my  mind.  I  want  it.  Grant  me  this  favour,  Mack 
intosh  !  I  ask  it  of  you." 

Mr.  Carlisle  seemed  to  find  it  amazingly  pleasant  to 
have  Eleanor  sueing  to  him  for  favours ;  for  he  answered 
her  as  much  with  caresses  as  with  words;  both  very 
satisfied. 

"You  try  me  beyond  my  strength,  Eleanor.  Your 
mother  offers  to  give  you  to  me  Monday — Do  you  think 
I  care  so  little  about  this  possession  that  I  will  not  take  it 
a  week  earlier  than  I  had  hoped  to  have  it  ?" 

"  But  the  week  is  mine — it  is  due  to  me,  Macintosh. 
No  one  has  a  right  to  take  it  from  me.  You  may  have 
the  power ;  and  I  ask  you  not  to  use  it." 

"  Eleanor,  you  break  my  heart.  My  love,  do  you 
know  that  I  have  business  calling  for  me  in  London  ? — 
it  is  calling  for  me  now,  urgently.  I  must  carry  you  up 
to  London  at  once ;  and  this  week  that  you  plead  for,  I 
do  not  know  how  to  give.  If  I  can  go  the  fifteenth  in 
stead  of  the  twenty-second,  I  must.  Do  you  see,  Nel 
lie  ?"  he  asked  very  tenderly. 

Eleanor  hardly  saw  anything  ;  the  world  and  all  in  it 
seemed  to  be  in  a  swimming  state  before  her  eyes.  Only 
Mr.  Carlisle's  "  can's"  and  "  must's"  obeyed  him,  she 
felt  sure,  as  well  as  everything  else.  She  felt  stunned. 
Holding  her  on  one  arm,  Mr.  Carlisle  began  to  pluck 


258  THE     OLD     HKLMET. 

flowers  and  myrtle  sprays  and  to  adorn  her  hair  with 
them.  It  was  a  labour  of  love ;  he  liked  the  business 
and  played  with  it.  The  beautiful  brown  masses  of  hair 
invited  and  rewarded  attention. 

"  Then  my  mother  has  spoken  to  you  ?"  she  said  at 
length. 

"Yes," — he  said,  arranging  a  spray  of  heath  with 
white  blossoms.  "  Do  yon  blame  me  ?"  Eleanor  sought 
to  withdraw  herself  from  his  arm,  but  he  detained  her. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  Up  stairs — to  my  room." 

"  Do  you  forgive  me,  Eleanor  ?"  he  said,  looking  down 
at  her. 

"No,— I  think  I  do  not." 

He  laughed  a  little,  kissing  her  downcast  face. 

"  I  will  make  you  my  wife,  Monday,  Eleanor ;  and 
after  that  I  will  make  you  forgive  me ;  and  then — my 
wife  shall  ask  me  nothing  that  she  shall  not  have." 

Keeping  her  on  his  arm,  he  led  her  slowly  from  the 
conservatory,  through  the  rooms,  and  up  the  staircase, 
to  the  door  of  her  own  apartment. 

Eleanor  tore  out  the  flowers  as  soon  as  she  was  alone, 
locked  her  door,  meaning  at  least  not  to  see  her  mother 
that  night ;  took  off  her  dress  and  lay  down.  Refuge 
failed  her.  She  was  in  despair.  What  could  she  arrange 
between  Tuesday  night  and  Monday  ?  Short  of  taking 
poison,  or  absconding  privately  from  the  house,  and  so 
disgracing  both  herself  and  her  family.  Yet  Eleanor 
was  in  such  desperation  of  feeling  that  both  those  expe 
dients  occurred  to  her  in  the  course  of  the  night,  al 
though  only  to  be  rejected.  Worn-out  nature  must  have 
some  rest  however ;  and  towards  morning  she  slept. 

It  was  late  when  she  opened  her  eyes.'  They  fell  first 
upon  Julia,  standing  at  her  bedside. 

"  Are  you  awake,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Yes.    I  wish  I  could  sleep  on." 


IN     DOUBT.  "259 

*«  There's  news." 

"  News !  What  sort  of  news  ?"  said  Eleanor,  feeling 
that  none  concerned  hei*. 

"  It's  bad  news — and  yet — for  you — it  is  good  news." 

"  What  is  it,  child  ?     Speak." 

"  Lady  Rythdale — she  is  dead." 

Eleanor  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and  stared  at 
Julia.  "How  do  you  know?  how  do  you  know?"  she 
said. 

"  A  messenger  came  to  tell  us — she  died  last  night. 
The  man  came  a  good  while  ago,  but — " 

She  never  finished  her  sentence;  for  Eleanor  threw 
herself  out  of  bed,  exclaiming,  "  I  am  saved !  I  am 
saved!" — and  went  down  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside. 
It  was  hardly  to  pray,  for  Eleanor  scarce  knew  how  to 
pray ;  yet  that  position  seemed  an  embodiment  of  thanks 
she  could  not  speak.  She  kept  it  a  good  while,  still  as 
death.  Julia  stood  motionless,  looking  on. 

"  Don't  think  me  wicked,"  said  Eleanor  getting  up  at 
last.  "  I  am  not  glad  of  anything  but  my  own  deliver 
ance.  Oh,  Julia! — " 

"  Poor  Eleanor !"  said  her  little  sister  wouderingly. 
"  Then  you  don't  want  to  be  married  and  go  to  Ryth 
dale  ?" 

"  Not  Monday !"  said  Eleanor.  "  And  now  I  shall 
not.  It  is  not  possible  that  a  wedding  and  a  funeral 
should  be  in  one  house  on  the  same  day.  I  know  which 
they  would  put  off  if  they  could,  but  they  have  got  to 
put  off  the  other.  O  Julia,  it  is  the  saving  of  me !" 

She  caught  the  little  one  in  her  arras  and  sat  with  her 
so,  their  two  heads  nestling  together,  Eleanor's  bowed 
upon  her  sister's  neck. 

"  But  Eleanor,  will  you  not  marry  Mr.  Carlisle  after 
all?" 

'•  I  cannot, — for  a  good  while,  child." 

"But  then?" 


260  THE      OLD     HELMET. 

"I  shall  never  be  married  in  a  hurry.  I  have  got 
breathing  time — time  to  think.  And  I'll  use  it." 

"  And,  O  Eleanor  !  won't  you  do  something  else  ?" 

"What?" 

"  Won't  you  be  a  servant  of  the  Lord  ?" 

"  I  will — if  I  can  find  out  how,"  Eleanor  answered 
low. 

It  poured  with  rain.  Eleanor  liked  it  that  day,  though 
generally  she  was  no  lover  of  weather  that  kept  her 
within.  A  spell  of  soothing  had  descended  upon  her." 
Life  was  no  longer  the  rough  thing  it  had  seemed  to  her 
yesterday.  A  constant  drop  of  thankfulness  at  her 
heart  kept  all  her  words  and  manner  sweet  with  its 
secret  perfume.  Eleanor's  temper  was  always  as  sound 
as  a  nut ;  but  there  was  now  a  peculiar  grace  of  gentle 
ness  and  softness  in  all  she  did.  She  was  able  to  go 
faultlessly  through  all  the  scenes  of  that  day  and  the 
following  days ;  through  her  mother's  open  discomfiture 
and  half  expressed  disappointment,  and  Mr.  Carlisle's 
suppressed  impatience.  His  manner  was  perfect  too ; 
his  impatience  was  by  no  word  or  look  made  known ; 
grave,  quiet,  self-contained,  he  only  allowed  his  affection- 
ateiiess  towards  Eleanor  to  have  full  play,  and  the  expres 
sion  of  that  was  changed.  He  did  not  appeal  to  her  for 
sympathy  which  pei'haps  he  had  a  secret  knowledge  she 
could  not  give ;  but  with  lofty  good  breeding  and  his 
invariable  tact  he  took  it  for  granted.  Eleanor's  part 
was  an  easy  one  through  those  days  which  passed  before 
Mr.  Carlisle's  going  up  to  London.  He  went  immedi 
ately  after  the  funeral. 

It  was  understood,  however,  between  him  and  Mrs. 
Powle,  that  the  marriage  should  be  delayed  no  longer 
than  till  some  time  in  the  spring.  Then,  Mr.  Carlisle 
declared,  he  should  carry  into  eflect  his  original  plan  of 
going  abroad,  and  take  Eleanor  with  him.  Eleanor 


IN      DOUBT.  261 

heard  them  talk,  and  kept  silence ;  letting  them  Arrange 
it  their  own  way.  .  m 

"  For  a  little  while,  Eleanor  1"  were  the  parting  words 
which  Mr.  Carlisle's  lips  left  upon  hers.  And  Eleanor 
turned  then  to  look  at  what  was  before  her. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

••The  earth  has  lost  its  power  to  drag  me  downward  ; 

Its  spell  is  gone  ; 

My  course  is  now  right  upward,  and  right  onward, 
To  yonder  throne." 

SHE  had  three  months  of  quiet  time.  Not  more ;  and 
they  would  quickly  speed  away.  What  she  had  to  do, 
she  could  not  do  too  soon.  Eleanor  knew  it.  The 
soothed  feeling  of  the  first  few  days  gave  place  to  a 
restless  mood  almost  as  soon  as  Mr.  Carlisle  was  gone. 
Three  years  seemed  more  like  what  she  wanted  than 
three  months.  She  felt  ignorant,  dark,  and  unhappy ; 
how  was  she  to  clear  up  this  moral  mist  and  see  how 
the  plan  of  life  lay,  without  any  hand  to  lead  her  or  help 
her?  There  was  only  one  she  knew  in  the  world  that 
could ;  and  from  any  application  to  him,  or  even  any 
chance  contact  with  him,  Eleanor  consciously  shrank. 
That  would  never  do ;  that  must  never  be  heard  of  her. 
With  all  this,  she  began  to  dread  the  disturbing  and 
confusing  effects  of  Mr.  Carlisle's  visits  to  the  country. 
He  would  come ;  he  had  said  so ;  and  Mrs.  Powle  kept 
reminding  her  of  it  upon  every  occasion. 

Eleanor  had  been  forbidden  to  ride  alone.  She  did 
not  dare ;  she  took  to  long  lonely  walks.  It  was  only 
out  of  doors  that  she  felt  quite  free ;  in  her  own  room 
at  home,  though  never  so  private,  her  mother  would  at 
any  time  come  with  distracting  subjects  of  conversation. 
Eleanor  fled  to  the  moor  and  to  the  wilds ;  walked,  and 
rested  on  the  stones,  and  thought ;  till  she  found  think- 


AT     THE     RECTO  KY.  263 

ing  degenerate  into  musing;  then  she  started  up  and 
went  on.  She  tired  herself.  She  did  not  find  rest. 

One  day  she  took  her  course  purposely  to  the  ruined 
priory.  It  was  a  long  walk  ;  but  Eleanor  courted  long 
walks.  And  when  she  got  there,  musing,  it  must  be 
confessed,  had  a  good  time.  She  stepped  slowly  down 
the  grass-grown  nave  of  the  old  church,  recalling  with 
much  bitterness  the  day  of  her  betrothal  there ;  blaming 
herself,  and  blaming  her  mother  more.  Yet  at  any  rate 
that  day  she  had  set  seal  to  her  own  fate ;  would  she  be 
able,  and  had  she  a  right, — that  was  the  worst  question, 
— to  break  it  now  ?  She  wandered  on,  out  of  the  church, 
away  from  the  beautiful  old  ivied  tower,  which  seemed 
to  look  down  on  her  with  grave  reproach  from  the 
staidness  of  years  and  wisdom ;  wound  about  over  and 
among  the  piles  of  shapeless  ruin  and  the  bits  of  lichened 
and  moss-grown  walls,  yet  standing  here  and  there  ;  not 
saying  to  herself  exactly  where  she  was  going,  but  try 
ing  if  she  could  find  out  the  way ;  till  she  saw  a  thicket 
of  thorn  and  holly  bushes  that  she  remembered.  Yes, 
the  larches  too,  and  the  young  growth  of  beech  trees. 
Eleanor  plunged  through  this  thicket,  as  well  as  she 
could ;  it  was  not  easy ;  and  there  before  her  was  the 
clear  spot  of  grass,  the  angle  of  the  thick  old  wall,  and 
the  deep  window  that  she  wanted  to  see  again.  All  still 
and  lonely  and  wild.  Eleanor  went  across  and  took  a 
seat  in  the  window  as  she  had  done  once  before,  to  rest 
and  think. 

And  then  what  she  thought  of,  was  not  the  old  monks, 
nor  the  exquisite  fair  view  out  of  the  window  that  had 
belonged  to  them ;  though  it  was  a  soft  December  day, 
and  the  light  was  as  winning  fair  on  house  and  hill  and 
tree-top  as  if  it  had  been  a  different  season  of  the  year. 
No  cloud  in  the  sky,  and  no  dark  shadows  upon  the 
earth.  But  Eleanor's  thoughts  went  back  to  the  thunder 
storm,  and  her  need  then  first  felt  of  an  inward  sunshine 


264  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

that  would  last  in  cloudy  times.  She  recalled  the  talk 
about  the  Chiistian's  helmet ;  with  a  weary,  sorrowful, 
keen  renewal  of  regret  at  her  own  want  of  it.  The 
words  Mr.  Rhys  had  spoken  about  it  at  that  time  she 
could  not  very  well  remember ;  but  well  she  remembered 
the  impression  of  them,  and  the  noble,  clear  calmness  of 
his  face  and  manner.  Very  unlike  all  other  calmness 
and  nobleness  that  she  had  seen.  The  nobleness  of  one 
whose  head  was  covered  by  that  royal  basnet ;  the  fear 
lessness  of  one  whose  brows  were  consciously  shaded  by 
it.  The  simplicity  that  had  nothing  to  feign  or  conceal ; 
the  poise  of  manner  that  came  from  an  established  heart 
and  conscience.  Eleanor  presently  caught  herself  up. 
What  was  she  thinking  about  Mr.  Rhys  for  ?  True,  the 
thought  of  him  was  very  near  the  thought  of  his  teach 
ing  ;  nevertheless  the  one  thing  concerned  her,  the  other 
did  not.  Did  it  not?  Eleanor  sighed,  and  wished  she 
could  have  a  little  of  his  wise  guidance ;  for  notwith 
standing  all  she  had  heard  him  say,  she  felt  in  the  dark. 
In  the  midst  of  all  this,  Eleanor  heard  somebody  hum 
ming  a  scrap  of  a  tune  on  the  other  side  of  the  holly 
bushes.  Another  instant  told  her  it  Avas  a  tune  she  had 
heard  never  but  once  before,  and  that  once  in  Mr. 
Brooks's  barn.  There  was  besides  a  little  rustling  of  the 
thorn  bushes.  Eleanor  could  think  of  but  one  person 
coming  to  that  spot  of  the  ruins ;  and  in  sudden  terror 
she  sprang  from  the  window  and  rushed  round  the  other 
corner  of  the  wall.  The  tune  ceased ;  Eleanor  heard  no 
more;  but  she  dared  not  falter  or  look  back.  She  was 
in  a  thicket  on  this  side  too,  and  in  a  mass  of  decayed 
ruins  and  rubbish  which  almost  stopped  her  way.  By 
determination  and  perseverance,  with  some  knocks  and 
scratches,  she  at  last  got  free  and  stopped  to  breathe 
and  think.  Why  was  she  so  frightened  ?  Mr.  Carlisle. 
But  what  should  she  do  now  ?  Suppose  she  set  off  to 
walk  home;  she  might  be  joined  by  the  person  she 


AT     THE      RECTORY.  265 

wished  to  shun ;  it  was  impossible  to  foresee  that  he 
would  sit  an  hour  meditating  in  the  old  window.  Over 
against  Eleanor,  a  little  distance  off,  only  plantations  of 
shrubbery  and  soft  turf  between,  was  the  Rector's 
house.  Best  go  there  and  take  refuge,  and  then  be 
guided  by  circumstances.  She  went  accordingly,  feeling 
sorrowful  that  she  should  have  to  run  away  from  the 
very  person  whose  counsel  of  all  others  she  most  needed. 

The  door  was  opened  to  Eleanor  by  the  Rector  him 
self. 

"  Ha !  my  dear  Miss  Powle,"  said  the  good  doctor, — 
"  this  is  an  honour  to  me.  I  don't  know  what  you  will 
do  now,  for  my  sister  is  away  at  Brompton — will  you 
come  in  and  see  an  old  bachelor  like  myself?" 

"  If  you  will  let  me,  sir." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,  my  dear  Miss  Eleanor !  You 
were  always  welcome,  ever  since  you  were  so  high ;  and 
now  that  you  are  going  to  occupy  so  important  a  posi 
tion  here,  I  do  not  know  a  lady  in  the  neighbourhood 
that  deserves  so  much  consideration  as  yourself.  Come 
in — come  in  !  How  did  you  get  here  ?" 

"  Taking  a  long  walk,  sir.  Perhaps  you  will  give  me 
some  refreshments." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted.  Come  in  here,  and  we  will 
have  luncheon  together  in  my  study — which  was  never 
so  honoured  before ;  but  I  think  it  is  the  pleasantest 
place  in  the  house.  The  other  rooms  my  sister  fills  with 
gimcracks,  till  I  cannot  turn  round  there  without  fear  of 
breaking  something.  Now  my  old  folios  and  octavos 
have  tried  a  fall  many  a  time — and  many  a  one  has  tried 
a  fall  with  them — ha  !  ha  ! — and  no  harm  to  anybody. 
Sit  down  there  ,now,  Miss  Eleanor,  and  rest.  That's 
what  I  call  a  pretty  window.  You  see  I  am  in  no  dan 
ger  of  forgetting  my  friend  Mr.  Carlisle  here." 

Eleanor  looked  out  of  the  window  very  steadily  ;  yet 
she  was  not  refreshing  her  remembrance  of  Mr.  Carlisle 
12 


266  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

neither.  -There  were  glimpses  of  a  tall,  alert  figure, 
passing  leisurely  in  and  out  among  the  trees  and  the 
ruins  ;  finally  coming  out  into  full  view  and  walking 
with  brisk  step  over  the  greensward  till  he  was  out  of 
sight.  Eleanor  knew  it  very  well,  the  figure  and  the 
quick  step ;  the  energy  and  life  in  every  movement. 
She  heard  no  more  of  Dr.  Cairnes  for  some  time ; 
though  doubtless  he  was  talking,  for  he  had  ordered 
luncheon  and  noWit  was  served,  and  he  was  pressing 
her  to  partake  of  it.  Dr.  Cairnes'  cheese  was  excellent ; 
his  hung  beef  was  of  prime  quality  ;  and  the  ale  was  of 
a  superior  brand,  and  the  wine  which  he  poured  out  for 
Eleanor  was,  he  assured  her,  as  its  sparkling  drops  fell 
into  the  glass,  of  a  purity  and  flavour  "  that  even  his 
friend  Mr.  Carlisle  would  not  refuse  to  close  his  lips 
upon."  Eleanor  felt  faint  and  weary,  and  she  knew  Mr. 
Carlisle's  critical  accuracy ;  but  she  recollected  at  the 
same  time  Mr.  Rhys's  cool  abstinence,  and  she  put  the 
glass  of  wjne  away. 

"  2fbt .?"  said  the  doctor.  "  You  would  prefer  a  cup 
of  chocolate.  Bad  taste,  Miss  Eleanor — wine  is  better 
for  you,  .too.  Ladies  will  sup  chocolate,  I  believe;  I 
wonder  what  they  find  in  it.  The  thing  is,  my  sister 
being  away  to-day,  I  don't  know — " 

Eleanor  begged  he  would  not  mind  that,  nor  her; 
however  the  chocolate  was  ordered  and  in  due  time 
brought. 

"  Now  that  will  make  you  dull,"  said  the  doctor, — 
"  sleepy.  It  does  not  have,  even  on  you,  the  reviv 
ing,  brilliant  effect  of  this  beverage."  And  he  put  the 
bright  glass  of  wine  to  his  lips.  It  was  not  the  first 
filled. 

"  Before  I  get  dull,  dear  doctor,  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

"  Ay  ?"  said  the  doctor,  looking  at  her  over  the  wine. 
"  You  do  ?  What  about  ?  Say  on,  Miss  Eleanor.  I 


AT     THE     RECTORY.  267 

am  yours  doubly  now,  by  the  past  and  the  future.  You 
may  command  me." 

"  It  is  about  the  present,  I  wish  to  talk,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  My  mind  is  not  at  rest,"  said  Eleanor,  laying  her 
hands  in  her  lap  and  looking  off  again  towards  the  ruins 
with  their  green  and  grey  silent  reminders, — "  about  re 
ligious  subjects." 

"  Ah  ?"  said  Dr.  Cairnes.  "  How  is  that,  Miss  Elea 
nor  ?  Be  a  little  more  explicit  with  me,  will  you  not." 

"  I  will.  Dr.  Cairnes,  I  am  young  now,  but  by  and  by 
decay  must  come  to  me,  as  it  has  come  to  that- old  pile 
yonder — as  it  comes  to  everything.  I  want  security  for 
my  head  and  heart  when  earthly  security  fails." 

Eleanor  spoke  slowly,  looking  out  as  she  spoke  all  the 
while. 

"  Security  !"  said  the  doctor.  "  But  my  dear  Miss 
Eleanor,  you  know  {he  articles  of  our  holy  religion  ?" 

"  Yes, — "  she  said  without  stirring  her  position. 

"  Security  is  given  by  them,  most  amply  and  abun 
dantly,  to  every  sincere  applicant.  Your  life  has  been  a 
sheltered  one,  Miss  Eleanor,  and  a  kind  one ;  you  can 
have  no  very  grievous  sins  to  charge  yourself  with." 

"  I  would  like  to  get  rid  of  such  as  I  have,"  answered 
Eleanor  without  moving. 

"  You  were  baptized  in  infancy  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  have  never  been  confirmed  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Every  baptized  child  of  the  Church,  Miss  Eleanor, 
owes  it  to  God,  to  herself,  and  the  Church,  upon  arriving 
at  a  proper  age,  to  come  forward  and  openly  take  upon 
herself — or  himself — but  I  am  talking  of  you, — the  vows 
made  for  her  in  her  infancy,  at  her  baptism,  by  her 
sponsors.  Upon  doing  this,  she  is  received  into  full 
membership  with  the  Church  and  entitled  to  all  its  priv- 


268  THE     OLD      UK  I,  MET. 

ileges ;  and  undoubtedly  security  is  one  of  them.  That  is 
what  you  want  to  do,  Miss  Eleanor ;  and  I  am  truly  re 
joiced  that  your  mind  is  setting  itself  to  the  contempla 
tion  of  its  duties— and  responsibilities.  In  the  station 
you  are  preparing  to  occupy,  the  head  of  all  this  neigh 
bourhood — Wiglands  and  Rythdale  both — it  is  most  im 
portant,  most  important,  that  your  example  should  be 
altogether  blameless  and  your  influence  thrown  altogether 
on  the  right  side.  That  influence,  my  dear  Miss  Elea 
nor,  is  very  great.'' 

"  Dr.  Cairnes,  my  one  single  present  desire,  is  to  do 
right  and  feel  safe,  myself." 

"  Precisely.  And  to  do  right,  is  the  way  to  feel  safe. 
I  will  give  you  a  little  work,  preparatory  to  the  ordi 
nance  of  confirmation,  Miss  Eleanor,  which  I  entreat  you 
to  study  and  prayerfully  follow.  That  will  relieve  all 
your  difficulties,  I  have  no  fear.  There  it  is,  Miss  Elea 
nor." 

"Will  this  rite — will  this  ordinance,"  said  Eleanor 
closing  her  fingers  on  the  book  and  for  the  first  time 
looking  the  doctor  straight  in  the  face, — "  will  it  give 
me  that  helmet  of  salvation,  of  which  I  have  heard  ?" 

"  Hey  ?  what  is  that  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  have  heard — and  read — of  the  Christian  '  helmet 
of  salvation.'  I  have  seen  that  a  person  whose  brows 
are  covered  by  it,  goes  along  fearless,  hopeful,  and 
happy,  dreading  nothing  in  this  life  or  the  next. — Will 
being  confirmed,  put  this  helmet  upon  my  head  ? — make 
me  fearless  and  happy  too  ?" 

"  My  dear  Miss  Eleanor,  I  cannot  express  how  you 
astonish  me.  I  always  have  thought  you  were  one  of 
the  strongest-hearted  persons  I  knew  ;  and  in  your  cir 
cumstances  I  am  sure  it  was  natural But  to  your  ques 
tion.  The  benefit  of  confirmation,  my  dear  young  lady, 
as  well  as  of  every  other  ordinance  of  the  Church,  de 
pends  of  course  on  the  manner  and  spirit  with  which  we 


A.  T     THE     RECTORY  269 

engage  in  it.  There  is  confirming  and  strengthening 
grace  in  it  undoubtedly  for  all  who  come  to  the  ordi 
nance  in  humble  obedience,  with  prayer  and  faith,  and 
who  truly  take  upon  them  their  vows." 

"  But  Dr.  Cairnes,  I  might  die  before  I  could  be  con 
firmed  ;  and  I  want  rest  and  security  now.  I  do  not 
have  it,  day  nor  night.  I  have  not,  ever  since  the  time 
when  I  was  so  ill  last  summer.  I  want  it  now" 

"  My  dear  Miss  Eleanor,  the  only  way  to  obtain  secur 
ity  and  rest,  is  in  doing  one's  duty.  Do  your  duty  now, 
and  it  will  come.  Your  conscience  has  taken  up  the  mat 
ter,  and  will  have  satisfaction.  Give  it  satisfaction,  and 
rest  will  come." 

"  How  can  I  give  it  satisfaction  ?"  said  Eleanor  sitting 
up  and  looking  at  the  doctor.  "  I  feel  myself  guilty — I 
know  myself  exposed  to  ruin,  to  death  that  means  death  ; 
what  can  I  give  to  my  conscience,  to  make  it  be  still  ?" 

"  The  Church  offers  absolution  for  their  sins  to  ah1  that 
are  truly  sorry  for  them,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Are  you 
penitent  on  account  of  your  sins,  Miss  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Penitent  ? — I  don't  know,"  said  Eleanor  drooping  a 
little  from  her  upright  position.  "  I  feel  them,  and  know 
them,  and  Avish  them  away;  but  if  I  were  penitent, 
they  would  be  gone,  wouldn't  they  ?  and  they  are  not 
gone." 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  the  doctor.  "  You  have  too 
much  leisure  to  think,  and  your  thoughts  are  turning  in 
upon  themselves  and  becoming  morbid.  I  think  this  is 
undue  sensitiveness,  my  dear  Miss  Eleanor.  The  sins 
we  wish  away,  will  never  be  made  a  subject  of  judg 
ment  against  us.  I  shall  tell  my  friend  Mr.  Carlisle  that 
his  presence  is  wanted  here,  for  something  more  import 
ant  than  the  interests  of  the  county.  I  shall  tell  him  he 
must  not  let  you  think  too  much.  I  think  he  and  I  to 
gether  can  put  you  right.  In  the  mean  while,  you  read 
my  little  book." 


270  THE     OLD     HELMUT. 

"  Dr.  Cairnes,  what  I  have  said  to  you  is  said  in  strict 
confidence.  I  do  not  wish  it  spoken  of,  even  to  my 
mother." 

"  Of  course,  of  course  !"  said  the  doctor.  "  That  is 
all  understood.  The'  Church  never  reveals  her  children's 
secrets.  But  I  shall  only  give  him  a  little  gentle  hint, 
which  will  be  quite  sufficient,  I  have  no  doubt ;  and  I 
shall  have  just  the  cooperation  that  I  desire." 

"  How  excellent  your  cheese  is,  Dr.  Cairnes." 

"  Ah  !  you  like  it,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  am  proud.  I 
always  purchase  my  cheese  myself — that  is  one  thing  I 
do  not  leave  to  my  sister.  But  this  one  I  think  is  par 
ticularly  fine.  You  won't  take  a  half  glass  of  ale  with 
it  ? — no, — I  know  Mr.  Carlisle  does  not  like  ale,  But  it 
would  be  a  good  sequent  of  your  ride,  nevertheless. 

"  I  did  not  ride,  sir.     I  walked." 

"  Walked  from  Ivy  Lodge  !  All  this  way  to  see  me, 
Miss  Eleanor  ?" 

"  No  sir — only  for  a  walk,  and  to  see  the  ruins.  Then 
I  was  driven  to  take  shelter  here." 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it !  I  am  very  glad  of  it !"  said 
the  doctor.  "  I  have  not  enjoyed  my  luncheon  so  much 
in  a  year's  time  ;  and  you  delight  me  too,  my  dear  Miss 
Eleanor,  by  your  present  dispositions.  But  walk  all  the 
way  here !  I  shall  certainly  write  to  Mr.  Carlisle." 

Eleanor's  cheeks  flushed,  and  she  rose.  "  Not  only 
all  the  way  here,  but  all  the  way  back  again,"  said  she  ; 
"  so  it  is  time  I  bade  you  good  bye." 

The  doctor  was  very  anxious  to  carry  her  home  in 
the  chaise  ;  Eleanor  was  more  determined  that  he  should 
not ;  and  determination  as  usual  carried  the  day.  The 
doctor  shook  his  head  as  he  watched  her  oflT. 

"  Are  you  going  to  shew  this  spirit  to  Mr.  Carlisle  ?" 
he  said. 

Which  remark  gave  Eleanor  an  impetus  that  carried 
her  a  third  of  her  way  home.  During  the  remaining 


AT     THE     RECTORY.  271 

two  thirds  she  did  a  good  deal  of  thinking ;  and  arrived 
at  the  Lodge  with  her  mind  made  up.  There  was  no 
chance  of  peace  and  a  good  time  for  her,  without  going 
away  from  home.  Dr.  Cairnes'  officiousness  would  be 
sure  to  do  something  to  arouse  Mr.  Carlisle's  watchful 
ness  ;  and  then—"  the  game  will  be  up,"  said  Eleanor  to 
herself.  "  Between  his  being  here  and  the  incessant  ex 
pectation  of  him,  there  will  be  no  rest  for  me.  I  must 
get  away."  She  laid  her  plans. 

After  dinner  she  slipped  away  and  sought  her  father  in 
his  study.  It  was  called  his  study,  though  very  little  of 
that  character  truly  belonged  to  it.  More  truly  it  bal 
anced  between  the  two  purposes  of  a  smoking-room  and 
an  office ;  for  county  business  was  undoubtedly  done 
there ;  and  it  was  the  nook  of  retirement  where  the 
Squire  indulged  himself  in  his  favoured  luxury ;  the 
sweet  weed.  The  Squire  took  it  pure,  in  a  pipe ;  no 
cigars  for  him ;  and  filling  his  pipe  Eleanor  found  him. 
She  lit  the  pipe  for  him,  and  contrary  to  custom  sat 
clown.  The  Squire  puffed  away. 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  care  for  this  sort  of  thing, 
Eleanor,"  he  remarked.  "  Are  you  learning  not  to  mind 
it  already  ?  It  is  just  as  well !  Perhaps  your  husband 
will  want  you  to  sit  Avith  him  when  he  smokes." 

"  I  wrould  not  do  that  for  any  man  in  the  world,  papa, 
except  you !" 

"  Ho !  Ho !"  said  the  Squire.  "  Good  wives,  my  dear, 
do  not  mind  trifles.  They  had  better  not,  at  any  rate." 

"Papa,"  said  Eleanor,  whose  cheeks  were  flaming, 
"  do  you  not  think,  since  a  girl  must  give  up  her  liberty 
so  completely  in  marrying,  that  she  ought  to  be  allowed 
a  good  little  taste  of  it  beforehand  ?" 

"St.  George  and  the  Dragon  !  I  do,"  said. the-  Squire. 
"  Your  mother  says  it  tends  to  lawlessness — and  I  say,  I 
don't  care.  That  is  not  my  concern.  If  a  man  cannot 
rule  his  wife,  he  had  better  not  have  one — that  is  my 


272  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

opinion ;  and  in  your  case,  my  dear,  there  is  no  fear. 
Mr.  Carlisle  is  quite  equal  to  his  duties,  or  I  am  mistaken 
in  him." 

Eleanor  felt  nearly  wild  under  her  father's  speeches  ; 
nevertheless  she  sat  perfectly  quiet,  only  fiery  about  her 
cheeks. 

"  Then,  papa,  to  come  to  the  point,  don't  you  think  in 
the  little  time  that  remains  to  me  for  my  own,  I  might 
be  allowed  to  do  what  I  please  with  myself?" 

"  I  should  say  it  was  a  plain  case,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  Take  your  pleasure,  Nellie ;  I  won't  tether  you.  What 
do  you  want  to  do,  child  ?  I  take  it,  you  belong  to  me 
till  you  belong  to  somebody  else." 

"  Papa,  I  want  to  run  away,  and  make  a  visit  to  my 
aunt  Caxton.  I  shall  never  have  another  chance  in  the 
world — and  I  want  to  go  off  and  be  by  myself  and  feel 
free  once  more,  and  have  a  good  time." 

"  Poor  little  duck !"  said  her  father.  "  You  are  a  sen 
sible  girl,  Nellie.  Go  off;  nobody  shall  hinder  you." 

"  Papa,  unless  you  back  me,  mamma  and  Mr.  Carlisle 
will  not  hear  of  it." 

"  I'd  go  before  he  comes  down  then,"  said  the  Squire, 
knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  energetically.  "  St. 
George  !  I  believe  that  man  half  thinks,  sometimes,  that 
I  am  one  of  his  tenantry!  The  lords  of  Rythclale 
always  did  lord  it  over  everything  that  came  in  their 
way.  Now  is  your  only  chance,  Eleanor;  run  away,  if 
you're  a  mind  to  ;  Mr.  Carlisle  is  master  in  his  own 
house,  no  doubt,  but  he  is  not  master  in  mine ;  and  I 
say,  you  may  go.  Do  him  no  harm  to  be  kept  on  shott 
commons  for  a  little  while." 

With  a  joyful  heart  Eleanor  went  back  to  the  draw 
ing-room  ;  and  sat  patiently  still  at  some  fancy  work  till 
Mrs.  Powle  waked  up  from  a  nap. 

"  Mamma,  Dr.  Cairnes  wants  me  to  be  confirmed." 

"  Confirmed !" — Mrs.  Powle  echoed  the  word,  sitting 


AT     THE     RECTORY.  273 

bolt  upright  in  her  chair  and  opening  her  sleepy  eyes 
wide  at  her  daughter. 

"  Yes.  He  says  I  ought  to  be  confirmed.  He  has 
given  me  a  book  upon  confirmation  to  study." 

"  I  wonder  what  you  will  do  next !"  said  Mrs.  Powle, 
sinking  back.  "  Well,  go  on,  if  you  like.  Certainly,  if 
you  are  to  be  confirmed,  it  ought  to  be  done  before  your 
marriage.  I  wish  anything  would  confirm  you  in  sober 
ways." 

"  Mamma,  I  want  to  give  this  subject  serious  study,  if 
I  enter  into  it ;  and  I  cannot  do  it  properly  at  home.  I 
want  to  go  away  for  a  visit." 

"  Well — "  said  Mrs.  Powle,  thinking  of  some  cousins 
hi  London. 

"  I  want  to  be  alone  and  quiet  and  have  absolute 
peace  for  awhile ;  and  this  death  of  Lady  Rythdale 
makes  it  possible.  I  want  to  go  and  make  a  visit  to  my 
aunt  Caxton." 

" Caxton  !" — Mrs.  Powle  'almost  screamed.  "Cax 
ton  !  There !  In  the  mountains  of  Wales !  Eleanor, 
you  are  perfectly  absurd.  It  is  no  use  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Mamma,  papa  sees  no  objection." 

"  He  does  not !  So  you  have  been  speaking  to  him  ! 
Make  your  own  fortunes,  Eleanor !  I  see  you  ruined 
already.  With  what  favour  do  you  suppose  Mr.  Carlisle 
will  look  upon  such  a  project  ?  Pray  have  you  asked 
yourself?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  and  I  am  not  going,  to  consult  him  in 
the  matter." 

The  tea-equipage  and  the  Squire  came  in  together  and 
stopped  the  conversation.  Eleanor  took  care  not  to 
renew  it,  knowing  that  her  point  was  gained.  She  took 
her  father's  hint,  however,  and  made  her  preparations 
short  and  sudden.  She  sent  that  night  a  word,  telling 
of  her  wish,  to  Mrs.  Caxton ;  and  waited  but  till  the 
answer  arrived,  waited  on  thorns,  to  set  off.  The  Squire 
12* 


2*74  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

looked  rather  moody  the  next  day  after  his  promise  to 
Eleanor ;  but  he  Avould  toot  withdraw  it ;  and  no  other 
hindrance  came.  Eleanor  departed  safely,  under  the 
protection  of  old  Thomas,  the  coachman,  long  a  faithful 
servitor  in  the  family.  The  journey  was  only  part  of 
the  distance  by  railway ;  the  rest  was  by  posting ;  and  a 
night  had  to  be  spent  on  the  road. 

Towards  evening  of  the  second  day,  Eleanor  began  to 
find  herself  in  what  seemed  an  enchanted  region.  High 
mountains,  with  picturesque  bold  outlines,  rose  against 
the  sky ;  and  every  step  was  bringing  her  deeper  and 
deeper  among  them,  in  a  rich  green  meadow  valley. 
The  scenery  grew  only  wilder,  richer,  and  lovelier,  until 
the  sun  sank  behind  the  high  western  line ;  and  still  its 
loveliness  was  not  lost ;  while  grey  shades  and  duskiness 
gathered  over  the  mountain  sides  and  gradually  melted 
the  meadows  and  their  scattered  wood  growth  into  one 
hue.  Then  only  the  wild  mountain  outline  cut  against 
the  sky,  and  sometimes  the 'rushing  of  a  little  river,  told 
Eleanor  of  the  varied  beauty  the  evening  hid. 

Little  else  she  could  see  when  the  chaise  stopped  and 
she  got  out.  Dimly  a  long,  low  building  stretched 
before  her  at  the  side  of  the  road  ;  the  rippling  of  water 
sounded  softly  at  .1  little  distance ;  the  fresh  mountain 
air  blew  in  her  face ;  then  the  house  door  opened. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

"  Face  to  face  with  the  true  mountains 

I  stood  silently  and  (till, 
Drawing  strength  from  fancy's  dauntings, 

From  the  air  about  the  hill, 
And  from  Nature's  open  mercies,  and  most  debonair  good  will." 

THE  house-door  opened  first  to  shew  a  girl  in  short 
petticoats  and  blue  jacket  holding  up  a'  light.  Eleanor 
made  towards  it,  across  a  nai'row  strip  of  courtyard. 
She  saw  only  the  girl,  and  did  not  feel  certain  whether 
she  had  come  to  the  right  house.  For  neither  Mrs.  Cax- 
ton  nor  her  home  had  ever  been  seen  by  any  of  Mr. 
Powle's  children  ;  though  she  was  his  own  sister.  But 
Mrs.  Caxton  had  married  quite  out  of  Mrs.  Powle's 
world  ;  and  though  now  a  widow,  she  lived  still  the  mis 
tress  of  a  great  cheese  farm  ;  quite  out  of  Mrs.  Powle's 
world  still.  The  latter  had  therefore  never  encouraged 
intercourse.  Mrs.  Caxton  was  an  excellent  woman,  no 
doubt,  and  extremely  respectable  ;  still,  Ivy  Lodge  and 
the  cheese  farm  were  further  apart  in  feeling  than  in 
geographical  miles ;  and  though  Mrs.  Caxton  often  in 
vited  her  brother's  children  to  come  and  pick  butter 
cups  in  her  meadows,  Mrs.  Powle  always  proved  that  to 
gather  primroses  in  Rythdale  was  a  higher  employment, 
and  much  better  for  the  children's  manners,  if  not  for 
their  health.  The  Squire  at  this  late  day  had  been  unaf 
fectedly  glad  of  Eleanor's  proposal;  avowing  himself  not 
ashamed  of  his  sister  or  his  children  either.  For  Elea 
nor  herself,  she  had  no  great  expectation,  except  of  rural 
retirement  in  a  place  where  Mr.  Carlisle  would  not  follow 


276  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

her.  That  was  enough.  She  had  heard  besides  that  the 
country  was  beautiful,  and  her  aunt  well  off. 

As  she  stepped  up  now  doubtfully  to  the  girl  with  the 
light,  looking  to  see  whether  she  were  right  or  wrong, 
the  girl  moved  a  little  aside  so  as  to  light  the  entrance, 
and  Eleanor  passed  on,  discerning  another  figure  behind. 
A  good  wholesome  voice  exclaimed,  "  You  are  welcome, 
my  dear  !  It  is  Eleanor  ? — "  and  the  next  instant  Mr. 
Powle's  daughter  found  herself  taken  into  one  of  those 
warm,  gentle,  genial  embraces,  that  tell  unmistakeably 
what  sort  of  a  heart  moves  the  enfolding  arms.  It  was 
rest  and  strength  at  once ;  and  the  lips  that  kissed  her 
— there  is  a  great  deal  of  character  in  a  kiss — were  at 
once  sweet  and  firm. 

"  You  have  been  all  day  travelling,  my  dear.  You 
must  be  in  want  of  rest." 

There  was  that  sort  of  clear  strength  in  the  voice,  to 
which  one  gives,  even  in  the  dark,  one's  confidence. 
Eleanor's  foot  fell  more  firmly  on  the  tiled  floor,  as  she 
followed  her  aunt  along  a  passage  or  tAVO  ;  a  little  uncer 
tainty  in  her  heart  was  quieted ;  she  was  ready  pre 
pared  to  expect  anything  pleasant ;  and  as  they  turned 
in  at  a  low  door,  the  expectation  was  met. 

The  door  admitted  them  to  a  low-ceiled  room,  also 
with  a  tiled  floor,  large  and  light.  A  good  wood  fire 
burned  in  the  quaint  chimney  piece ;  before  it  a  table 
stood  prepared  for  supper.  A  bit  of  carpet  was  laid 
down  under  the  table  and  made  a  spot  of  extra  comfort 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Dark  plain  wainscotting, 
heavy  furniture  of  simplest  fashion,  little  windows  well 
curtained ;  all  nothing  to  speak  of;  all  joined  inexpli 
cably  to  produce  the  impression  of  order,  stability  and 
repose,  which  seized  upon  Eleanor  almost  before  she  had 
time  to  observe  details.  But  the  mute  things  in  a  house 
have  an  odd  way  of  telegraphing  to  a  stranger  what  sort 
of  a  spirit  dwells  in  the  midst  of  them.  It  is  always  so ; 


IN     THE     HILLS.  277 

and  Mrs.  Caxton's  room  assured  Eleanor  that  her  first 
notions  of  its  mistress  were  not  ill-founded.  She  had 
opportunity  to  test  and  strengthen  them  now,  in  the 
full  blaze  of  lamp  and  firelight ;  as  her  aunt  stood  be 
fore  her  taking  off"  her  bonnet  and  wrappers  and  hand 
ing  them  over  to  another  attendant  with  a  candle  and 
a  blue  jacket. 

In  the  low  room  Mrs.  Caxton  looked  even  taller  than 
belonged  to  her  ;  and  she  •vyas  tall,  and  of  noble  full  pro 
portions  that  set  oif  her  height.  Eleanor  thought  she 
had  never  seen  a  woman  of  more  dignified  presence ;  the 
head  was  set  well  back  on  the  shoiilders,  the  carriage 
straight,  and  the  whole  moral  and  physical  bearing  placid 
and  quiet.  Of  course  the  actual  movement  was  easy 
and  fine ;  for  that  is  with  every  one  a  compound  of  the 
physical  and  moral.  Scarcely  Elizabeth  Fry  had  finer 
port  or  figure.  The  face  was  good,  and  strong ;  the 
eyes  full  of  intelligence  under  the  thick  dark*brows  ;  all 
the  lines  of  the  face  kind  and  commanding.  A  cap  of 
very  plain  construction  covered  the  abundant  hair,  which 
was  only  a  little  grey.  Nothing  else  about  Mrs.  Caxton 
shewed  age.  Her  dress  was  simple  to  quaintness  ;  but 
relieved  by  her  magnificent  figure  that  effect  was  forgot 
ten,  or  only  remembered  as  enhancing  the  other.  Elea 
nor  sat  down  in  a  great  leather  chair,  where  she  had 
been  put,  and  looked  on  in  a  sort  of  charmed  sState ; 
while  her  aunt  moved  about  the  table,  gave  quiet  orders, 
made  quiet  arrangements,  and  finally  took  Eleanor's 
hand  and  seated  her  at  the  tea-table. 

"  Not  poppies,  nor  mandragora — "  could  have  had  such 
a  power  of  soothing  over  Eleanor's  spirits.  She  sat  at  the 
table  like  a  fairy  princess  under  a  friendly  incantation  ; 
and  the  spell  was  not  broken  by  any  word  or  look  on  the 
part  of  her  hostess.  No  questions  of  curiosity ;  no  en 
deavours  to  find  out  more  of  Eleanor  than  she  chose  to 
shew  ;  no  surprise  expressed  at  her  mid- winter  coming ; 


278  THK     OLD      HELMET. 

nor  so  much  pleasure  as  would  have  the  effect  of  surprise. 
So  naturally  and  cordially  and  with  as  much  simplicity 
her  visit  was  taken,  as  if  it  had  been  a  yearly  accustomed 
thing,  and  one  of  Mr.  Powle's  children  had  not  now  seen 
her  aunt  for  the  first  time.  Indeed  so  rare  was  the 
good  sense  and  kindness  of  this  reception,  that  Eleanor 
caught  herself  wondering  whether  her  aunt  could  already 
know  more  of  her  than  she  seemed  to  know ;  and  not 
caring  if  she  did !  Yet  it  was  impossible,  for  her  mother 
would  not  tell  her  story,  and  her  father  could  not ;  and 
Eleanor  came  round  to  admiring  with  fresh  admiration 
this  noble-looking,  new-found  relation,  whose  manner  to 
wards  herself  inspired  her  with  such  confidence  and 
exercised  already  such  a  powerful  attraction.  And  this 
was  the  mistress  of  a  cheese-farm  !  Eleanor  could  not 
help  being  moved  with  a  little  curiosity  on  her  part. 
This  lady  had  no  children  ;  no  near  relations ;  for  she 
was  ignored  by  her  brother's  family.  She  lived  alone ; 
was  she  not  lonely  ?  Would  she  not  wear  misanthropi 
cal  or  weary  traces  of  such  a  life  ?  None  ;  none  were 
to  be  seen.  Clear  placidness  dwelt  on  the  brow,  that 
looked  as  if  nothing  ever  ruffled  it ;  the  eye  was  full  of 
business  and  command ;  and  the  mouth, — its  corners  told 
of  a  fountain  of  sweetness  somewhere  in  the  region  of 
the  heart.  Eleanor  looked,  and  went  back  to  her  cup  of 
tea  and  her  supper  with  a  renewed  sense  of  comfort. 

The  supper  was  excellent  too.  It  would  have  belied 
Mrs.  Caxton's  look  of  executive  capacity  if  it  had  not 
been.  No  fault  was  to  be  discerned  anywhere.  The 
tea-service  was  extremely  plain  and  inexpensive ;  such 
as  Mrs.  Powle  could  not  have  used ;  that  was  certain. 
But  then  the  bread,  and  the  mutton  chops,  and  the  but 
ter,  and  even  the  tea,  were  such  as  Mrs.  Powle's  china 
was  never  privileged  to  bear.  And  though  Mrs.  Caxton 
left  in  the  background  every  topic  of  doubtful -agreeable- 
ness,  the  talk  flowed  steadily  with  abundance  of  mate 


IN     THE     HILS.       .  279 

rial  and  animation,  during  the  whole  supper-time.  Mrs. 
Caxton  was  the  chief  talker.  She  had  plenty  to  tell 
Eleanor  of  the  country  and  people  in  the  neighbourhood  ; 
of  things  to  be  seen  and  things  to  be  done  ;  so  that  sup 
per  moved  slowly,  and  was  a  refreshment  of  mind  as 
well  as  of  body. 

"  You  are  very  weary,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton, 
after  the  table  was  cleared  away,  and  the  talk  had  con 
tinued  through  all  that  time.  And  Eleanor  confessed  it. 
In  the  calm  which  was  settling  down  upon  her,  the 
strain  of  hours  and  days  gone  by  began  to  be  felt. 

"  You  shall  go  to  your  room  presently,"  said  Mrs. 
Caxton ;  "  and  you  shall  not  get  up  to  breakfast  with 
me.  That  would  be  too  early  for  you." 

Eleanor  was  going  to  enter  a  protest,  when  her  aunt 
turned  and  gave  an  order  in  Welsh  to  the  blue  jacket 
then  in  the  room.  And  then  Eleanor  had  a  surprise. 
Mrs.  Caxton  took  a  seat  at  a  little  distance,  before  a 
stand  with  a  book ;  and  the  door  opening  again,  in 
poured  a  stream  of  blue  jackets,  three  or  four,  followed 
by  three  men  and  a  boy.  All  ranged  themselves  on 
seats  round  the  room  ;  and  Mrs.  Caxton  opened  her  book 
and  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible.  Eleanor  listened,  in 
mute  wonder  where  this  would  end.  It  ended  in  all 
kneeling  down  and  Mrs.  Caxton  offering  a  prayer.  An 
extempore  prayer,  which  for  simplicity,  strength,  and 
feeling,  answered  ah1  Eleanor's  sense  of  what  a  prayer 
ought  to  be ;  though  how  a  woman  could  speak  it  be 
fore  others  and  before  men,  filled  her  with  astonishment. 
But  it  filled  her  with  humility  too,  before  it  was  done ; 
and  Eleanor  rose  to  her  feet  with  an  intense  feeling  of 
the  difference  between  her  aunt's  character  and  her  own  ; 
only  equalled  by  her  deep  gladness  at  finding  herself 
under  the  roof  where  she  was. 

Her  aunt  then  took  a  candle  and  lighted  her  through 
the  tiled  passages,  up  some  low  wooden  stairs,  uncar- 


280  .       THE     OLD     HELMET. 

peted ;  along  more  passages ;  finally  into  a  large  low 
matted  chamber,  with  a  row  of  little  lattice  windows. 
Comfort  and  simplicity  were  in  all  its  arrangements ;  a 
little  fire  burning  for  her ;  Eleanor's  trunks  in  a  closet. 
When  Mrs.  Caxton  had  shewed  her  all  that  was  neces 
sary,  she  set  down  her  candle  on  the  'low  mantelshelf, 
and  took  Eleanor  in  her  arms.  Again  those  peculiar,  gen 
tle  firm  kisses  fell  upon  her  lips.  But  instead  of  "  good 
night,"  Mrs.  Caxton's  words  were, 
(  "  Do  you  pray  for  yourself,  Eleanor  ?" 

Eleanor  dropped  her  head  like  a  child  on  the  breast 
before  her.  "  Aunt  Caxton,  I  do  not  know  how !" 

"  Then  the  Lord  Jesus  has  not  a  servant  in  Eleanor 
^Powle?" 

Eleanor  was  silent,  thoughts  struggling. 

"  You  have  not  learned  to  love  him,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  I  have  only  learned  to  wish  to  do  it,  aunt  Caxton ! 
I  do  wish  that.  It  was  partly  that  I  might  seek  it,  that 
I  wanted  to  come  here." 

Then  Eleanor  heai'd  a  deep-spoken,  "  Praise  the  Lord!" 
that  seemed  to  come  out  from  the  very  heart  on  which 
she  was  leaning.  "  If  you  have  a  mind  to  seek  him,  my 
dear,  he  is  willing  that  you  should  find.  '  The  Lord  is 
good  to  the  soul  that  seeketh  him.'  " 

She  kissed  Eleanor  on  .the  two  temples,  released  her 
and  went  down  stairs.  And  Eleanor  sat  down  before 
her  fire,  feeling  as  if  she  were  in  a  paradise. 

It  was  all  the  more  so,  from  the  unlikeness  of  every 
thing  that  met  her  eye,  to  all  she  had  known  before. 
The  chimney  piece  at  which  she  was  looking  as  she  sat 
there — it  was  odd  and  quaint  as  possible,  to  a  person  ac 
customed  only  to  the  modern  fashions  of  the  elegant 
world  ;  the  fire-tongs  and  shovel  would  have  been  surely 
consigned  to  the  kitchen  department  at  Ivy  Lodge.  Yet 
the  little  blazing  fire,  framed  in  by  its  rows  of  coloured 
tiles,  looked  as  cheerfully  into  Eleanor's  face  as  any  blaze 


IN     THE     HILLS.  281 

that  had  ever  greeted  it.  All  was  of  a  piece  with  the 
fire-place.  Simple  to  quaintness,  utterly  plain  and  cost 
less,  yet  with  none  of  the  essentials  of  comfort  forgotten 
or  neglected  ;  from  the  odd  little  lattice  windows  to  the 
tiled  floor,  everything  said  she  was  at  a  great  distance 
from  her  former  life,  and  Mr.  Carlisle.  The  room  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  made  for  Eleanor  to  settle  her  two  life- 
questions  in  it.  Accordingly  she  took  them  up  without 
delay ;  but  Eleanor's  mind  that  night  was  like  a  kaleido 
scope.  Images  of  different  people  and  things  started  up, 
with  wearying  perversity  of  change  and  combination ; 
and  the  question,  whether  she  would  be  a  servant  of  God 
like  her  aunt  Caxton,  was  inextricably  twisted  up  with 
the  other  question ;  whether  she  could  escape  being  the 
baroness  of  Rythdale  and  the  wife  of  Mr.  Carlisle. 
And  Eleanor  did  nothing  but  tire  herself  with  thinking 
that  night ;  until  the  fire  was  burnt  out  and  she  went  to 
bed.  Nevertheless  she  fell  asleep  with  a  sense  of  relief 
more  blissful  than  she  had  known  for  months.  She 
had  put  a  little  distance  at  least  between  her  and  her 
enemies. 

Eleanor  had  meant  to  be  early  next  day,  but  rest  had 
taken  too  good  hold  of  her ;  it  was  long  past  early  when 
she  opened  her  eyes.  The  rays  of  the  morning  sun 
were  peeping  in  through  the  lattices.  Eleanor  sprang 
up  and  threw  open,  or  rather  threw  back,  one  of  the 
windows,  for  the  lattice  slid  in  grooves  instead  of  hang 
ing  on  hinges.  She  would  never  have  found  out  how  to 
open  them,  but  that  one  lattice  stood  slightly  pushed 
back  already.  When  it  was  quite  out  of  her  way,  Elea 
nor's  breath  almost  stopped.  A  view  so  wild,  so  pictur 
esque,  so  rare  in  its  outlines  of  beauty,  she  thought  she 
had  never  seen.  Before  her,  at  some  distance,  beyond  a 
piece  of  broken  ground,  rose  a  bare-looking  height  of 
considerable  elevation,  crowned  by  an  old  tower  mass 
ively  constructed,  broken,  and  ivy-grown.  The  little 


282  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

track  of  a  footpath  was  visible  that  wound  round  the 
hill ;  probably  going  up  to  the  tower.  Further  beyond, 
with  evidently  a  deep  valley  or  gorge  between,  a  line  of 
much  higher  hills  swept  off  to  the  left ;  bare  also,  and 
moulded  to  suit  a  painter  of  weird  scenes,  yet  most 
lovely,  and  all  seen  now  in  the  fair  morning  beams  which 
coloured  and  lighted  them  and  the  old  tower  together. 
Nothing  else.  The  road  indeed  by  which  she  had  come 
passed  close  before  Eleanor's  window ;  but  trees  embow 
ered  it,  though  they  had  been  kept  down  so  as  not  to 
hinder  this  distant  view.  Eleanor  sat  a  long  while  spell 
bound  before  the  window. 

A  noise  disturbed  her.  It  was  one  of  the  blue  jackets 
bringing  a  tray  with  breakfast.  Eleanor  eagerly  asked 
if  Mrs.  Caxton  had  taken  breakfast ;  but  all  she  got  in 
return  was  a  series  of  unintelligible  sounds ;  however  as 
the  girl  pointed  to  the  sun,  she  concluded  that  the  family 
breakfast  hour  was  past.  Everything  strange  again ! 
At  Ivy  Lodge  the  breakfast  hour  lasted  till  the  lagging 
members  of  the  family  had  all  come  down ;  and  here 
there  was  no  family !  How  could  happiness  belong  to 
anybody  in  such  circumstances  ?  The  prospect  within 
doors,  Eleanor  suddenly  remembered,  was  yet  more 
interesting  than  the  view  without.  She  eat  her  break 
fast  and  dressed  and  went  down. 

But  to  find  the  room  where  she  had  been  the  evening 

o 

before,  was  more  than  her  powers  were  equal  to.  Going 
from  one  passage  to  another,  turning  and  turning  back, 
afraid  to  open  doors  to  ask  somebody;  Eleanor  was 
quite  bewildered,  when  she  happily  was  met  by  her 
aunt.  The  morning  kiss  and  greeting  renewed  in  her 
heart  all  the  peace  of  last  night. 

"I  cannot  find  my  way  about  ii>  your  house,  aunt 
Caxton.  It  seems  a  labyrinth." 

"  It  will  not  seem  so  long.  Let  me  shew  you  the  way 
out  of  it." 


IN     THE     HILLS.  283 

Through  one  or  two  more  turnings  Mrs.  Caxton  led 
her  niece,  and  opening  a  door  took  her  out  at  the  other 
side,  the  back  of  the  house,  where  Eleanor's  eyes  had 
not  been.  Here  there  was  a  sort  of  covered  gallery,  ex 
tending  to  some  length  under  what  was  either  an  upper 
piazza  or  the  projection  of  the  second  story  floor.  The 
ground  was  paved  with  tiles  as  usual,  and  wooden  set 
tles  stood  along  the  wall,  and  plain  stone  pillars  sup 
ported  the  roof.  But  as  Eleanor's  eyes  went  out  further 
she  caught  her  aunt's  hand  in  ecstasy. 

From  almost  the  edge  of  the  covered  gallery,  a  little 
terraced  garden  sloped  down  to  the  edge  of  a  small 
river.  The  house  stood  on  a  bank  above  the  river,  at  a 
commanding  height ;  and  on  the  river's  further  shore  a 
rich  sweep  of  meadow  and  pasture  land  stretched  to  the 
right  and  left  and  filled  the  whole  breadth  of  the  valley  ; 
^on  the  other  side  of  which,  right  up  from  the  green 
fields,  rose  another  line  of  hills.  These  were  soft,  swell 
ing,  round-topped  hills,  very  different  in  their  outlines 
from  those  in  another  quarter  which  Eleanor  had  been 
enjoying  from  her  window.  It  was  winter  now,  and  the 
garden  had  lost  its  glory ;  yet  Eleanor  could  see,  for  her 
eye  was  trained  in  such  matters,  that  good  and  excellent 
care  was  at  home  in  it ;  and  some  delicate  things  were 
there  for  which  a  slight  protection  had  been  thought 
needful.  The  river  was  lost  to  view  immediately  at  the 
right ;  it  wound  down  from  the  other  hand  through  the 
rich  meadows  under  a  thick  embowering  bosky  growth 
of  trees  ;  and  just  below  the  house  it  was  -spanned  by  a 
rude  stone  bridge,  from  which  a  hedged  lane  led  off  on 
the  other  side.  All  along  the  fences  or  hedges  which 
enclosed  the  fields  grew  also  beautiful  old  trees ;  the 
whole  landscape  was  decked  with  wood  growth,  though 
•the  hills  had  little  or  none.  All  the  more  the  sweet  con 
trast  ;  the  rare  harmony  ;  the  beautiful  mingling  of  soft 
cultivation  with  what  was  wild  and  picturesque  and 


284  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

barren.  And  the  river  gurgled  on,  with  a  fresh  sound 
that  told  of  its  activity ;  and  a  very  large  herd  of  cows 
spotted  the  green  turf  in  some  of  the  meadows  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stream. 

"  I  never  saw  any  place  so  lovely,"  exclaimed  Eleanor; 
"never!"  \ 

"  This  is  my  favourite  walking  place  in  winter,"  said 
Mrs.  Caxton ;  "  when  I  want  to  walk  under  shelter,  or 
not  to  go  far  from  home." 

"  How  charming  that  garden  must  be  when  the  spring 
comes !" 

"  Are  you  fond  of  gardening  ?"  said  Mrs.  Caxton. 

A  talk  upon  the  subject  followed,  in  which  Eleanor 
perceived  with  some  increase  of  respect  that  ner  aunt 
was  no  ignoramus  ;  nay,  that  she  was  familiar  with  deli 
cacies  both  in  the  practice  and  the  subjects  of  horticul 
ture  that  we're  not  well  known  to  Eleanor,  in  spite  of  her 
advantages  of  the  Lodge  and  Rythdale  conservatories* 
and  gardens  both  together.  In  the  course  of  this  talk, 
Eleanor  noticed  anew  all  the  indications  that  had  pleased 
her  last  night ;  the  calm  good  sense  and  self-possession  ; 
the  quiet  dignity ;  the  decision ;  the  kindness.  And 
perhaps  Mrs.  Caxton  too  made  her  observations.  But 
this,  was  the  mistress  of  the  cheese-farm ! 

A  pause  fell  in  their  talk  at  length  ;  probably  both 
had  matter  for  reflection. 

"  Have  you  settled  that  question,  Eleanor  ?"  said  her 
aunt  meaningly. 

"  That  question  ? — O  no,  aunt  Caxton  !  It  is  all  con 
fusion  ;  and  it  is  all  confused  with  another  question." 

There  was  more  than  talk  in  this  evidently,  for  Elea 
nor's  face  had  all  darkened.  Mrs.  Caxton  answered 
calmly, 

"  My  dear,  the  first  thing  I  would  do,  would  be  to 
separate  them." 

"  Aunty,  they  are  like  two  wrestlers ;  I  cannot  seem 


IN     THE     H  I  T,  T.  S  .  285 

to  separate  them.  If  I  think  of  the  one,  I  get  hold  of 
the  other ;  and  if  I  take  up  the  other,  I  am  obliged  to 
think  of  the  one ;  and  my  mind  is  the  fighting  ground." 

"  Then  the  two  questions  are  in  reality  one  ?" 

"  No,  aunt  Caxton — they  are  not.  Only  they  both 
press  for  attention  at  once." 

"  Which  is  the  most  important  ?" 

"  This  one — about  which  you  asked  me,"  Eleanor 
said,  drpoping  her  head  a  little. 

"  Then  decide  that  to-day,  Eleanor.5' 

"  Aunty,  I  have  decided  it — in  one  way.  I  am  deter 
mined  what  I  will  be — if  I  can.  Only  I  do  not  see  how. 
And  before  I  do  see  how, — perhaps — the  other  question 
may  have  decided  itself;  and  then — Aunty,  I  cannot  tell 
you  about  it  to-day.  Let  me  wait  a  few  days ;  till  I 
know  you  better  and  you  have  time  to  know  me.'' 

"  Then,  as  it  is  desirable  you  should  lose  no  time,  I 
shall  keep  you  with  me,  Eleanor.  Would  you  like  to- 
morrow  to  go  through  the  dairies  and  see  the  operation 
of  cheese-making  ?  Did  you  ever  see  it  ?" 

"  Aunt  Caxton,  I  know  no  more  about  cheese  than 
that  I  have  eaten  it  sometimes.  I  would  like  to  go  to 
morrow,  or  to-day  ;  whenever  you  please." 

"  The  work  is  nearly  over  for  to-day." 

"  Do  they  make  cheese  in  your  dairy  every  day,  aunt 
Caxton  ?" 

"Two  every  day." 

"  But  you  must  have  a  great  number  of  cows, 
ma'am  ?" 

"There  they  are,"  said  her  aunt,  looking  towards  the 
opposite  meadows.  "  We  milk  between  forty  and  fifty 
at  present ;  there  are  about  thirty  dry." 

"  Seventy  or  eighty  cows !"  exclaimed  Eleanor. 
"  Why  aunt  Caxton,  you  must  want  the  whole  valley 
for  their  pasturing." 

"  I  want  no  more  than  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton 


286  THE     OLD     HKLMKT. 

quietly.     "  You  see,  those  meadows  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river  look  rich.     It  is  a  very  good  cheese  farm." 
"  How  far  does  it  extend,  aunty  ?" 
"  All  along,  the  meadowland,  as  far  as  you  see." 
"  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  pleasanter  or  prettier 
home  in  all  the  kingdom  !"  Eleanor  exclaimed.     "  How 
charming,  aunt    Caxton,  all  this  must  be  in  summer, 
when  your  garden  is  in  bloom." 

"  There  is  a  way  of  carrying  summer  along  .with  us 
through  all  the  year,  Eleanor ;  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"  Do  you  wear  the  '  helmet'  too  ?"  thought  Eleanor. 
"I  have  no  doubt  but  you  do,  over  that  calm  brow  !"  But 
she  only  looked  wistfully  at  her  aunt,  and  Mrs.  Caxton 
changed  the  conversation.  She  sat  down  with  Eleanor 
on  a  settle,  for  the'  day  was  mild  and  the  place  shel 
tered  ;  and  talked  with  her  of  home  and  her  family. 
She  shewed  an  affectionate  interest  in  all  the  details  con 
cerning  her  brother's  household  and  life,  but  Eleanor 
admired  with  still  increasing  and  profound  respect,  the 
delicacy  which  stopped  every  inquiry  at  the  point  where 
delicacy  might  wish  to  withhold  the  answer.  The  up- 
rightest  self-respect  went  hand  in  hand  with  the  gentlest 
regard  and  respect  for  others.  To  this  reserve,  Eleanor 
wTas  more  communicative  than  she  could  have  been  to 
another  manner ;  and  on  some  points  her  hesitancy  told 
as  much,  perhaps,  as  her  disclosures  on  other  points;  so 
that  Mrs.  Caxton  was  left  with  some  general  idea,  if  not 
more,  of  the  home  Eleanor  had  lived  her  life  in  and  the 
various  people  who  had  made  it  what  it  was.  On  all 
things  that  touched  Rythdale  Eleanor  was  silent ;  and  so 
was  Mrs.  Caxton. 

The  conversation  flowed  on  to  other  topics  ;  and  the 
whole  day  was  a  gentle  entertainment  to  Eleanor.  The 
perpetual  good  sense,  information,  and  shrewdness  of  her 
hostess  was  matter  of  constant  surprise  and  interest. 
Eleanor  had  never  talked  with  anybody  who  talked  so 


IN     THE     HILLS.  287 

well ;  and  she  felt  obliged  unconsciously  all  the  time  to 
produce  the  best  of  herself.  That  is  not  a  disagreeable 
exercise ;  and  on  the  whole  the  day  reeled  off  on  silver 
wheels.  It  concluded  as  the  former  day  had  done  ;  and 
in  the  warm  prayer  uttered  by  her  aunt,  Eleanor  could 
not  help  feeling  there  was  a  pulse  of  the  heai't  for  her ; 
for  her  darkness  and  necessities.  It  sent  her  to  her  room 
touched,  and  humbled,  and  reminded ;  but  Eleanor's 
musings  this  night  were  no  more  fruitful  of  results  than 
those  of  last  night  had  been.  They  resolved  themselves 
into  a  long  waking  dream.  Mr.  Carlisle  exercised  too 
much  mastery  over  her  imagination,  for  any  other  con 
cern  to  have  fair  chance  till  his  question  was  disposed  of. 
Would  he  come  to  look  for  her  there  ?  It  was  just  like 
him  ;  but  she  had  a  little  hope  that  her  mother's  pride 
would  prevent  his  being  furnished  with  the  necessary  in 
formation.  That  Eleanor  should  be  sought  and  found  by 
him  on  a  cheese  farm,  the  mistress  of  the  farm  her  own 
near  relation,  would  not  probably  meet  Mrs.  Powle's  no 
tions  of  what  it  was  expedient  to  do  or  suffer.  A  slender 
thread  of  a  hope ;  but  that  was  all.  Supposing  he  came  ? 
Eleanor  felt  she  had  no  time  to  lose.  She  could  only 
deal  with  Mr.  Carlisle  at  a  distance.  In  his  presence,  she 
knew  now,  she  was  helpless.  But  a  vague  sense  of 
wrong  combated  all  her  thoughts  of  what  she  wished  to 
do;  with  a  confused  and  conflicting  question  of  what 
was  right.  She  wearied  herself  to  tears  with  her  dream 
ing,  and  went  to  bed  to  aggravate  her  troubles  in  actual 
dreams ;  in  which  the  impossible  came  in  to  help  the 
disagreeable. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

"  What  if  she  be  fastened  to  this  fool  lord, 
Dare  I  bid  her  abide  by  her  word  ?" 

THE  next  morning  nevertheless  was  bright,  and  Elea 
nor  was  early  down  stairs.  And  now  she  found  that  the 
day  was  begun  at  the  farmhouse  in  the  same  way  in 
which  it  was  ended.  A  reverent,  sweet,  happy  commit 
ting  of  all  her  affairs  and  her  friends  to  God,  in  the  presence 
and  the  company  of  her  household,  was  Mrs.  Caxton's 
entrance,  for  her  and  them,  upon  the  work  of  the  day. 
Breakfast  was  short  and  very  early,  which  it  had  to  be 
if  Eleanor  wanted  to  see  the  operations  of  the  dairy  ; 
and  then  Mrs.  Caxton  and  she  went  thither ;  and  then 
first  Eleanor  began  to  have  a  proper  conception  of  the 
magnitude  and  complication  of  the  business  her  aunt 
presided  over. 

The  dairies  were  of  great  extent,  stretching  along  the 
ground  floor  of  the  house,  behind  and  beyond  the^cov- 
ered  gallery  where  she  and  her  aunt  had  held  their  first 
long  conversation  the  day  before.  Tiled  floors,  as  neat 
as  wax ;  oaken  shelves,  tubs,  vats,  baskets,  cheese-hoops, 
presses ;  all  as  neat  and  sweet  as  it  was  possible  for  any 
thing  to  be,  looked  like  a  confusion  of  affairs  to  Eleanor's 
eye.  However,  the  real  business  done  that  morning  was 
sufficiently  simple  ;  and  she  found  it  interesting  enough 
to  follow  patiently  every  part  of  the  process  through  to 
the  end.  Several  blue  jackets  were  in  attendance ;  some 
Welsh,  some  English ;  each  as  diligent  at  her  work  as 


AT     THE     FARM.  289 

if  she  only  had  the  whole  to  do.  And  among  them 
Eleanor  noticed  how  admirably  her  aunt  played  the  mis 
tress  and  acted  the  executive  head.  Quietly,  simply,  as 
her  words  were  spoken,  they  were  nevertheless  words 
that  never  failed  to  be  instantly  obeyed ;  and  the  service 
that  was  rendered  her  was  given  with  what  seemed  the 
alacrity  of  affection,  as  well  as  the  zeal  of  duty.  Elea 
nor  stood  by,  watching,  amused,  intent ;  yet  taking  in  a 
silent  lesson  of  character  all  the  while,  that  touched  her 
heart  and  made  her  draw  a  deep  breath  now  and  then. 
The  last  thing  visited  was  the  cheese  house,  the  room 
where  the  cheeses  were  stored  for  ripening,  quite  away 
from  all  the  dairies.  Here  there  was  a  forest  of  cheeses ; 
standing  on  end  and  lying  on  shelves,  in  various  stages 
of  maturity. 

"  Two  a  day !"  said  Eleanor  looking  at  them.  "  That 
makes  a  wonderful  many  in  the  course  of  the  year." 

"  Except  Sundays,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton.  "  No  cheese  is 
made  on  Sunday  in  my  dairy,  nor  any  dairyxrork  done, 
except  milking  the  cows  and  setting  the  milk." 

"  I  meant  except  Sundays,  of  course." 

"  It  is  not  "  of  course "  %here,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton. 
"The  common  practice  in  large  dairy  farms  is  to  do  the 
same  work  on  the  seventh  day  that  is  done  all  the  six." 

"  But  that  is  wrong,  aunty,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Wrong  V  Of  course  it  is  wrong ;  but  the  defence  is, 
that  it  is  necessary.  If  Sunday's  milk  is  not  made  at 
once  into  cheese,  it  must  wait  till  Monday ;  and  not  only 
double  work  must  be  done  then,  for  Monday  will  have 
its  own  milk,  but  double  sets  of  everything  will  be 
needed  ;  tubs  and  presses  and  all.  So  people  think  they 
cannot  afford  it." 

"  Well,  how  can  they,  aunt  Caxton  ?  There  seems 
reason  in  that." 

"  Reason  for  what  ?" 

"  Why,  I  mean,  it  seems  they  have  some  reason  for 
13 


290  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

working  on  the  Sabbath — not  to  lose  all  that  milk.  It 
is  one  seventh  of  all  they  have." 

Mrs.  Caxton  replied  in  a  very  quiet  manner, — "  '  Thou 
shalt  remember  the  Lord  thy  God  ;  for  it  is  he  that  giv- 
eth  thee  power  to  get  wealth.'  " 

"  But  aunt  Caxton,"  said  Eleanor  a  little  doubtfully, — 
"  he  gives  it  in  the  use  of  means  ?" 

"  Do  yovi  think  he  blesses  the  use  of  means  he  has  for 
bidden  ?" 

Eleanor  was  silent  a  moment. 

"  Aunt  Caxton,  people  do  get  rich  so,  do  they  not  ?" 

"  *  The  blessing  of  the  Lord,  it  maketh  rich,' "  said  Mrs. 
Caxton  contentedly, — "  '  and  he  addeth  no  sorrow  with 
it.'  That  is  the  sort  of  riches  I  like  best." 

Eleanor  did  not  answer  ;  a  kind  of  moisture  came  up 
in  her  eyes,  for  she  felt  poor  in  those  riches. 

"  It  is  mere  want  of  faith,  Eleanor,  that  pleads  such  a 
reason,"  Mrs.  Caxton  Avent  on.  "  It  is  taking  the  power 
to  get  wealth  into  our  own  hands.  If  it  is  in  God's- 
hands,  it  is  just  as  easy  certainly  for  him  to  give  it  to  us 
in  the  obedient  use  of  means  as  in  the  disobedient  use  of 
them  ;  and  much  more  likely  that  he  will.  Many  a  man 
has  become  poor  by  his  disobedience,  for  one  that  has 
been  allowed  to  prosper  awhile  in  spite  of  it.  If  the 
statistics  were  made  up,  men  would  see.  Meanwhile, 
never  anybody  trusted  the  Lord  and  was  confounded." 

"  Then  what  do  you  do  with  the  seventh  day's  milk, 
aunt  Caxton  ?" 

"  I  make  butter  of  it.  But  I  would  pour  it  away  down 
the  river,  Eleanor,  before  I  would  make  it  an  excuse  for 
disobeying  God." 

This  was  said  without  any  heat,  but  as  the  quietest  of 
conclusions.  Eleanor  stood  silent,  wondering  at  her 
aunt's  cheeses  and  notions  together.  She  was  in  a  new 
world,  surely.  Yet  a  secret  feeling  of  respect  was  every 
moment  mounting  higher. 


AT     THE     FARM.  291 

"  The  principle  is  universally  true,  Eleanor,  that  the 
safe  way  in  everything  is  the  way  of  obedience.  Conse 
quences  are  not  in  our  hands.  It  is  only  unbelief  that 
would  make  consequences  a  reason  for  going  out  of  the 
way.  '  Trust  in  the  Lord,  and  keep  his  way  ;  so  shalt 
he  exalt  thee  to  inherit  the  land.'  I  have  had  nothing 
but  prosperity,  Eleanor,  ever  since  I  began  the  course 
which  my  neighbours  and  servants  thought  would  de 
stroy  me." 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  that,  aunt  Caxton* ; — how  it 
had  been." 

"  But  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton,  the  smile  with 
which  she  had  turned  to  Eleanor  fading  into  placid  grav 
ity  again, — "  if  it  had  been  otherwise,  it  would  have 
made  no  difference.     I  would  rather  be  poor,  with  myS 
Lord's  blessing,  than  have  all  the  principality  without  it." 

Eleanor  went  away  thinking.  All  this  applied  to  the 
decision  of  her  own  affairs ;  and  perhaps  Mrs.  Caxton 
had  intended  it  should.  But  yet,  how  should  she  de 
cide  ?  To  do  the  thing  that  was  right, — Eleanor  wished 
that, — and  did  not  know  what  it  was.  Her  wishes-said  one 
thing,  and  prayed  for  freedom.  A  vague,  tramelling 
sense  of  engagements  entered  into  and  expectations 
formed  and  pledges  given,  at  times  confused  all  her 
ideas ;  and  made  her  think  it  might  be  her  duty  to  go 
home  and  finish  wittingly  what  she  had  begun  in  igno 
rance  what  she  was  doing.  It  would  be  now  to  sacrifice 
herself.  Was  she  called  upon  to  do  that  ?  What  was 
right  ? 

Mrs.  Caxton  never  alluded  any  further  to  Eleanor's 
private  affairs ;  and  Eleanor  never  forgetting  them,  kept 
them  in  the  darkness  of  her  own  thoughts  and  did  not 
bring  them  up  to  the  light  and  her  aunt's  eye.  Only  for 
this  drawback,  the  days  would  have  passed  delightfully. 
The  next  day  was  Sunday. 


292  THE      O  L  I»      HELMET. 

"  We  have  a  long  drive  to  church,  Eleanor,"  said  her 
aunt.     "  How  will  you  go  ?" 

"  With  you,  aunty." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that ;  my  car  has  no  place  fo/ 
you.     Are  you  a  horsewoman  ?" 

"  O  aunty,   nothing  would  be  so  delightful !  if  yo~  • 
have  anything  I  can  ride.     Nothing  would  be  so  delight 
ful.     I  half  live  in  the  saddle  at  home." 

"  You  do  ?     Then  you  shall  go  errands  for  me.     I  will 
furaish  yo'u  with  a  Welsh  pony." 

And  this  very  day  Eleanor  mounted  him  to  ride  to 
church.  Her  aunt  was  in  a  light  car  that  held  but  her 
self  and  the  driver.  Another  vehicle,  a  sort  of  dog  cart, 
followed  with  some  of  the  servants.  The  day  was  mild 
and  pleasant,  though  not  brilliant  with  sunbeams.  It 
made  no  matter.  Eleanor  could  not  comprehend  how 
more  loveliness  could  have  been  croAvded  into  the  enjoy 
ment  of  twC  hours.  On  her  pony  she  had  full  freedom 
for  the  use  of  her  eyes ;  the  road  was  excellent,  and 
winding  in  -and  out  through  all  the  crookedness  of  the 
valley  they  threaded,  she  took  it  at  all  points  of  view 
Nothing  could  be  more  varied.  The  valley  itself,  rich 
and  wooded,  with  the  little  river  running  its  course 
marked  by  a  thick  embowering  of  trees ;  the  hills  that 
enclosed  the  valley  taking  every  form  of  beauty,  some 
times  wild  and  sometimes  tame,  heathery  and  barren, 
rough  and  rocky,  and  again  rounded  and  soft.  Along 
these  hills  came  into  view  numberless  dwellings,  of  vari 
ous  styles  and  sizes ;  with  once  in  a  while  a  bold  castle 
breaking  forth  in  proud  beauty,  or  a  dismantled  ruin 
telling  of  pride  and  beauty  that  had  been.  Eleanor  had 
no  one  to  talk  to,  and  she  did  not  want  to  talk.  On 
horseback,  and  on  a  Welsh  pony,  no  Black  Maggie  or 
Tippoo,  and  in  these  wonderful  new  strange  scenes,  she 
felt  free ;  free  from  Mr.  Carlisle  and  his  image  for  the 
nioment ;  and  though  knowing  that  her  bondage  would 


AT     THE     FARM.  293 

return,  she  enjoyed  her  freedom  all  the  more.  The  little 
pony  was  satisfactory;  and  as  there  was  no  need  of 
taking  a  gallop  to-day,  Eleanor  had  nothing  to  de 
sire. 

The  ride  ended  at  the  loveliest  of  all  picturesque  vil 
lages  ;  so  Eleanor  thought ;  nestled  in  what  seemed  the 
termination  of  the  valley.  A  little  village,  with  the 
square  tower  of  the  church  rising  up  above  the  trees  ;.all 
the  houses  stood  among  trees ;  and  the  river  was  crossed 
by  a  bridge  just  above,  and  tore  down  a  precipice  just 
below  ;  so  near  that  its  roar  was  the  constant  lullaby  of 
the  inhabitants.  It  was  the  only  sound  to-day,  rising  in 
Sabbath  stillness  over  the  hills.  After  ah1  this  ride,  the 
service  in  the  little  church  did  not  disappoint  expecta 
tion  ;  it  was  sound,  warm  and  good ;  and  Eleanor 
mounted  her  pony  and  rode  home  again,  almost  wishing 
she  could  take  service  with  her  aunt  as  a  dairymaid  for 
ever.  All  the  day  was  sweet  to  Eleanor.  '  But  at  the 
end  of  it  a  thought  darted  into  her  mind,  with  the 
keenness  of  an  arrow.  Mr.  Carlisle  in  a  few  days  more 
might  have  learned  of  her  run-away  freak  and  of  her 
hiding-place  and  have  time  to  come  after  her.  There 
was  a  barb  to  the  thought ;  for  Eleanor  could  not  get 
rid  of  it. 

She  begged  the  pony  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  and 
went  very  long  rambling  rides ;  in  the  luxury  of  being 
alone.  They  would  have  been  most  delightful,  but  for 
the  idea  that  haunted  her,  and  which  made  her  actuary 
afraid  to  enter  the  house  on  her  return  home.  Thisr 
state  of  things  was  not  to  be  borne  much  longer. 

"  You  have  let  the  pony  tire  you,  Eleanor,"  Mrs.  Cat 
ton  remarked.  It  was  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
and  the  two  ladies  were  sitting  in  the  light  of  the  wood 
fire. 

"  Ma'am,  he  could  not  do  that.  I  live  half  my  life  on 
horseback  at  home." 


294  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

"  Then  how  am  I  to  understand  the  long-drawn 
breaths  which  I  hear  from  you  every  now  and  then?" 

Mrs.  Caxton  was  twisting  up  paper  lighters.  She  was 
rarely  without  something  in  her  fingers.  Eleanor  was 
doing  nothing.  At  her  aunt's  question  she  half  laughed, 
and  seized  one  of  the  strips  of  paper  to  work  upon. 
Her  laugh  changed  into  a  sigh. 

"  Aunt  Caxton,  do  you  always  find  it  easy  to  know 
what  is  the  right  thing  to  do — in  all  circumstances  ?" 

"  I  have  always  infallible  counsel  that  I  can  take." 

"  You  mean  the  Bible  ?  But  the  Bible  does  not  tell 
one  everything." 

"  I  mean  prayer." 

"  Prayer  ! — But  my  dear  aunt  Caxton  !— " 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  ?" 

"  I  mean,  that  one  wants  an  answer  to  one's  perplex 
ing  questions." 

"  Mine  never  fail  of  an  answer,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton. 
"  If  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  Bible,  I  find  it ;  if  not,  I  go 
to  the  Lord  and  get  it  from  him." 

"  How,  my  dear  aunt  Caxton  ?  How  can  you  have 
an  answer in  that  way  ?" 

"  I  ask  to  be  directed — and  I  always  am,  Eleanor ; 
always  right.  What  do  you  think  prayer  is  good 
for  ?" 

"  But  aunt  Caxton ! — I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in 
my  life  !  Please  forgive  me." 

"  If  any  man  lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God,  that 
giveth  to  all  men  liberally,  and  upbraideth  not ;  and  it 
shall  be  given  Mm."  Did  you  never  hear  that,  Elea 
nor?" 

"  Aunty — excuse  me, — it  is  something  I  know  nothing 
about," 

"  You  never  had  an  answer  to  your  own  prayers  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Eleanor  drooping. 

"  My  dear,  there  may  be  two  reasons  for  that.    Who- 


AT     THE     FARM.  295 

ever  wishes  direction  from  the  Lord,  must  be  absolutely 
willing  to  follow  it,  whatever  it  be — we  may  not  ask 
counsel  of  him  as  we  do  of  our  fellow-creatui'es,  bent 
upon  following  our  own  all  the  while.  The  Lord  knows 
our  hearts,  and  withholds  his  answer  when  we  ask  so." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  the  answer  is,  aunty  ?" 

"  It  may  be  given  in  various  ways.  Sometimes  circum 
stances  point  it  out ;  sometimes  attention  is  directed  to 
a  word  in  the  Bible ;  sometimes,  '  thine  ears  shall  hear  a 
voice  behind  thee,  saying,  This  is  the  way,  walk  ye  in  it, 
when  ye  turn  to  the  right  hand,  and  when  ye  turn  to  the 
left.' " 

Eleanor  did  not  answer ;  she  thought  her  aunt  was 
slightly  fanatical. 

"  There  is  another  reason  for  not  getting  an  answer, 
Eleanor.  It  is,  not  believing  that  an  answer  will  be 
given." 

"  Aunty,  how  can  one  help  that  ?" 

"  By  simply  looking  at  what  God  has  promised,  and 
trusting  it.  '  But  let  a  man  ask  in  faith,  nothing  waver 
ing.  For  he  that  wavereth  is  like  a  wave  of  the  sea 
driven  with  the  wind  and  tossed.  For  let  not  that  man 
think  that  he  shall  receive  anything  of  the  Lord.' " 

"  Aunt  Caxton,  I  am  exactly  like  such  a  wave  of  the 
sea.  And  in  danger  of  being  broken  to  pieces  like  one." 

"  Many  a  one  has  been,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton.  But  it 
was  tenderly  said,  not  coldly ;  and  the  impulse  to  go 
on  was  irresistible.  Eleanor  changed  her  seat  for  one 
nearer. 

"  Aunt  Caxton,  I  want  somebody's  help  dreadfully." 

"  I  see  you  do." 

"  Do  you  see  it,  ma'am  ?" 

"  I  think  I  have  seen  it  ever  since  you  have  been 
here." 

"  But  at  the  same  time,  aunty,  I  do  not  know  how  to 
ask  it." 


296  THK     OLD     HELMET. 

"  Those  are  sometimes  the  neediest  oases.  But  I  hope 
you  will  find  a  way,  my  dear." 

Eleanor  sat  silent  nevertheless,  for  some  minutes ; 
and  then  she  spoke  in  a  lowered  and  changed  tone. 

"Aunt  Caxton,  you  know  the  engagements  I  am 
under  ? 

"  Yes.     I  have  heard." 

"  What  should  a  woman  do — what  is  it  her  duty  to 
do — who  finds  herself  in  every  way  bound  to  fulfil  such 
engagements,  except — " 

"  Except  what  ?" 

"  Except  her  own  heart,  ma'am,"  Eleanor  said  low 
and  ashamed. 

"  My  dear,  you  do  not  mean  that  your  heart  was  not 
in  these  engagements  when  you  made  them  ?" 

"  I  did  not  know  where  it  was,  aunty.  It  had  nothing 
to  do  with  them." 

"  Where  is  it  now  ?" 

"  It  is  not  in  them,  ma'am." 

"Eleanor,  let  us  speak  plainly.  Do  you  mean  that 
you  do  not  love  this  gentleman  whom  you  have  promised 
to  marry  ?" 

Eleanor  hesitated,  covered  her  face,  and  hesitated ;  at 
last  spoke. 

"  Aunt  Caxton,  I  thought  I  did  ; — -but  I  know  now  I 
do  not ;  not  as  I  think  I  ought ; — I  do  not  as  he  loves 
me."  Eleanor  spoke  with  burning  cheeks,  which  her 
aunt  could  see  even  in  the  firelight  and  though  Eleanor's 
hand  endeavoured  to  shield  them. 

"  What  made  you  enter  into  these  engagements,  my 
dear  ?" 

"  The  will  and  power  of  two  other  people,  aunt  Cax 
ton — and,  I  am  afraid,  now,  a  little  ambition  of  my  own 
was  at  work  in  it.  And  I  liked  him  too.  It  was  not  a 
person  that  I  did  not  like.  But  I  did  not  know  what  J 
was  doing.  I  liked  him,  aunt  Caxton." 


AT     THE     FARM.  297 

"  And  now  it  is  a  question  with  you  whether  you  will 
fulfil  these  engagements  ?" 

"  Yes  ma'am, — because  I  do  not  wish  to  fulfil  them. 
I  do  not  know  whether  I  ought,  or  ought  not." 

Mrs.  Oaxton  was  silent  in  her  turn. 

"  Eleanor, — do  you  like  some  one  else  better  ?" 

"  Nobody  else  likes  me  better,  aunt  Caxton — there  is 
nothing  of  that  kind — " 

"  Still  my  question  is  not  answered,  Eleanor.  Have 
you  more  liking  for  any  other  person  ?" 

"  Aunt  Caxton — I  do  not  know — I  have  seen — I  do 
not  know  how  to  answer  you !"  Eleanor  said  in  bitter 
confusion ;  then  hiding  her  face  she  went  on — "  Just  so 
much  as  this  is  true,  aunt  Caxton, — I  have  seen,  what 
makes  me  know  that  I  do  not  love  Mr.  Carlisle ;  not  as 
he  loves  me." 

Mrs.  Caxton  stooped  forward,  took  Eleanor's  hands 
down  from  her  face  and  kissed  her.  It  was  a  sad, 
drooping,  pained  face,  hot  with  shame. 

"  My  child,"  she  said,  "  your  honesty  has  saved  you. 
I  could  not  have  advised  you,  Eleanor,  if  you  had  not 
been  frank  with  me.  Poor  child  !" 

Eleanor  came  down  on  the  floor  and  hid  her  face  in 
Mrs.  Caxton's  lap.  Her  aunt  kept  one  hand  softly  rest 
ing  on  her  hair  while  she  spoke.  She  was  silent  first, 
and  then  she  spoke  very  tenderly. 

"  You  did  not  know,  at  the  time  you  engaged  your 
self  to  this  gentleman,  that  you  were  doing  him 
wrong?" 

"  No,  ma'am — I  thought  rather  of  wrong  to  myself." 

"Why?" 

"  They  were  in  such  a  hurry,  ma'am." 

"  Since  then,  you  have  seen  what  you  like  better." 

"  Yes,  ma'am," — said  Eleanor  doubtfully, — "  or  what 
I  know  I  could  like  better,  if  there  was  occasion.  That 
ia  all." 

13* 


298  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

"  Now  the  question  is,  in  these  circumstances,  what  is 
your  duty  to  Mr.  Carlisle." 

Eleanor  lifted  her  head  to  look  into  her  aunt's  face  for 
the  decision  to  come. 

"  The  rule  of  judgment  is  not  far  off,  Eleanor  ;  it  is 
the  golden  rule.  '  Whatsoever  ye  would  that  men 
should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them.'  My  deal-, 
take  the  case  of  the  person  you  could  like  best  in  the 
world; — would  you  have  such  a  person  marry  you  if  his 
heart  belonged  to  somebody  else  ?" 

"  Not  for  the  whole  world  I"  said  Eleanor  raising  her 
head  which  had  fallen  again.  "But  aunt  Caxton,  that  is 
not  my  case.  My  heart  is  not  anybody's." 

"  Put  it  differently  then.  Would  you  marry  such  a 
man,  if  you  knew  that  his  mere  liking  for  another  was 
stronger  than  his  love  for  you  ?" 

"  I  think — I  would  rather  die  !"  said  Eleanor  slowly. 

"  Then  I  think  your  question  is  answered." 

"  But  aunt  Caxton,  it  is  not  answered.  Mr.  Carlisle 
would  not  feel  so.  I  know,  he  would  have  me  marry  him, 
if  he  knew  that  my  heart  was  a  thousand  times  another 
person's — which  it  is  not." 

"  Don't  alter  the  case,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton,  "  except  to 
make  it  stronger.  If  he  were  the  right  sort  of  man,  he 
would  not  have  you  do  so.  There  is  no  rule  that  we 
should  make  other  people's  wishes  our  standard  of 
right." 

"  But  aunt  Caxton,  I  have  done  Mr.  Carlisle  grievous 
wrong.  O,  I  feel  that !— " 

"Yes.    What  then?" 

"  Am  I  not  bound  to  make  him  all  the  amends  in  my 
power  ?" 

"  Short  of  doing  further  wrong.  Keep  right  and 
wrong  always  clear,  Eleanor.  They  never  mean  the 
same  thing." 

"  Aunty,  what  you  must  think  of  me  1" 


AT     THE     FAEM.  299 

"  I  think  of  you  just  now  as  saved  from  shipwreck. 
Many  a  girl  r  as  drifted  on  in  the  course  you  were  going, 
without  courage  to  get  out  of  the  current,  until  she  has 
destroyed  her  self;  and  perhaps  somebody  else." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  had  much  courage,  aunt  Caxton," 
said  Eleanor  blushing. 

"  What  had  you,  then  ?" 

"  It  was  mainly  my  horror  of  marrying  that  man, 
after  I  found  I  did  not  love  him.  And  yet,  aunt  Cax 
ton,  I  do  like  him  ;  and  I  am  very,  very,  very  sorry !  It 
has  almost  seemed  to  me  sometimes  that  I  ought  to 
marry  him  and  give  him  what  I  can  ;  and  yet,  if  I  were 
ready,  I  would  rather  die." 

"  Is  your  doubt  settled  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am," — said  Eleanor  sadly. 

"  My  dear,  you  have  done  wrong, — I  judge,  somewhat 
ignorantly, — but  mischief  can  never  be  mended  by  mis 
chief.  To  marry  one  man,  preferring  another,  is  the 
height  of  disloyalty  to  boMi  him  and  yourself;  unless 
you  can  lay  the  whole  truth  before  him ;  and  then,  as  I 
think,  in  most  cases  it  would  be  the  height  of  folly." 

"  I  will  >>  rHe  to  Mr.  Carlisle  to-morrow." 

"  And  the^?  Eleanor,  what  was  the  other  question  you 
came  here  to  settle  ?" 

"  It  is  quite  a  different  question,  aunty,  and  yet  it  was 
all  twisted  up  with  the  other." 

"  You  can  tell  it  me ;  it  will  hardly  involve  greater 
of  nfidence,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton,  bending  over  and  kissing 
Eleanor's  brow  which  rested  upon  her  knee.  "  Eleanor, 
I  am  very  thankful  you  came  to  Plassy." 

The  girbrose  up  and  kneeling  beside  her  hid  her  face 
in  Mrs.  Caxton's  bosom.  "Aunt  Caxton,  I  am  so 
glad !  I  have  wanted  just  this  help  so  long !  and  this 
refuge.  Put  your  arms  both  round  me,  and  hold  me 
tight." 

Mrs    Caxton  said  nothing  for  a  little   while.     She 


300  2  fl  E     OLD     HELMET. 

waited  for  Eleanor  to  take  her  own  time  and  speak; 
Very  still  the  two  were.  There  were  some  straining 
sobs  that  came  from  the  one  and  went  to  the  heart  of 
the  other  ;  heavy  and  hard  ;  but  with  no  sound  till  they 
were  quieted. 

"  Aunt  Caxton,"  said  Eleanor  at  last,  "  the  other  ques 
tion  was  that  one  of  a  refuge." 

"  A  heavenly  one  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  had  heard  of  a  '  helmet  of  salvation ' — I 
wanted  it ; — but  I  do  not  know  how  to  get  it." 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is  ?" 

"  Not  very  clearly.     But  I  have  seen  it,  aunt  Caxton ; 
—I  know  it  makes  people  safe  and  happy.     I  want  it 
for  myself." 

"Safe  from  what?" 

"  From — all  that  I  feared  when  I  was  dangerously  ill 
last  summer." 

"  What  did  you  fear,  Eleanor  ?" 

"All  the  future,  aunt  Caxton.  I  was  not  ready, 
I  knew,  to  go  out  of  this  world.  I  am  no  better 
now." 

They  had  not  changed  their  relative  positions.  Elea 
nor's  face  still  lay  on  her  aunt's  bosom ;  Mrs.  Caxton's 
arms  still  enfolded  her. 

"  Bless  the  Lord !  there  is  such  a  helmet,"  she  said 
"  but  we  cannot  manufacture  it,  Eleanor,  nor  even  buj 
it.    If  you  have  it  at  all,  you  must  take  it  as  a  free 
gift." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  If  you  are  willing  to  be  a  soldier  of  Christ,  he  will 
give  you  his  armour."  r 

"  Aunt  Caxton,  I  do  not  understand." 

"  It  is  only  to  take  the  promises  of  God,  my  dear, 
if  you  will  take  them  obediently.  Jesus  has  declared 
that  "whosoever  believeth  on  him,  hath  everlasting 


AT    THE     FAKM.  301 

"  But  I  cannot  exactly  understand  what  believing  in 
him  means.  I  am  very  stupid."  Eleanor  raised  her 
head  and  looked  now  in  her  aunt's  face. 

"  Do  you  understand  his  work  for  us  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  ma'am." 

"  My  dear,  it  is  the  work  of  love  that  was  not  willing 
to  let  us  be  miserable.  While  we  were  yet  sinners, 
Christ  died  for  us.  He  gave  himself  a  ransom  for  all. 
He  suffered  for  sins,  the  just  for  the  unjust,  that  he 
might  bring  us  to  God." 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  understand  that,"  said  Eleanor 
wearily. 

"  The  only  question  is,  whether  we  will  let  him  bring 
us.  The  question  is,  whether  we  are  willing  to  accept  this 
substitution  of  the  innocent  One  for  our  guilty  selves,  and 
be  his  obedient  children.  If  we  are — if  we  rely  on  him 
and  his  blood  only,  and  are  willing  to  give  up  ourselves 
to  him,  then  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  cleanseth  us  from 
all  sin.  No  matter  though  they  be  red  like  crimson, 
they  shall  be  as  wool.  There  is  no  condemnation  to 
them  which  are  in  Christ  Jesus,  who  walk  not  after  the 
flesh  but  after  the  Spii'it." 

"  But  I  do  not  walk  so,"  said  Eleanor. 

"Do  you  want  to  walk  so  ?" 

"  O  yes,  ma'am !  yes !"  said  Eleanor  clasping  her 
hands.  "  I  desire  it  above  all  possible  things.  I  want 
to  be  such  a  one." 

"  If  you  truly  desire  it,  my  dear,  it  is  certain  that  you 
may  have  what  you  want ;  for  the  Lord's  will  is  not 
different.  He  died  for  this  very  thing,  that  he  might 
be  just,  and  the  justifier  of  him  that  believeth  in  Jesus. 
There  is  an  open  door  before  you  ;  all  things  are  ready ; 
you  have  only  to  plead  the  promises  and  enter  in.  The 
Lord  himself  says,  Come." 

"  Aunt  Caxton,  I  understand,  I  think ;  but  I  do  not 
feel ;  not  anything  but  fear, — and  desire." 


302  THE      OL 1,      HKLMKT. 

"  This  is  the  mere  sta  'ernei-t  of  truth,  my  dear  ^  it  is 
like  the  altar  with  the  wood  laid  in  readiness  and  the 
sacrifice — all  cold ;  and  till  fire  falls  down  from  heaven 
no  incense  will  arise  from  earth.  But  if  any  man 
lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God,  that  giveth  to  all 
men  liberally  and  upbraideth  not ;  and  it  shall  be  given 
him." 

"  I  am"  a  poor  creaturt,,  aunt  Caxton !"  said  Eleanor, 
hiding  her  face  again.  And  again  Mrs.  Caxton's  arm 
came  tenderly  round  her.  And  again  Eleanor's  tears 
flowed,  this  time  in  a  flood. 

"  Certainly  you  are  a  poor  creature,  Eleanor.  I  am 
glad  you  are  finding  it  out.  But  will  you  flee  to  the 
stronghold,  you  poor  little  prisoner  of  hope  ?" 

"  I  think  I  am  rather  the  prisoner  of  fear,  aunty." 

"  Hope  is  a  better  gaoler,  my  dear." 

"  But  that  is  the  very  thing  that  I  want." 

"  The  Lord  give  it  you !" 

They  sat  a  good  while  in  stillness  after  that,  each 
thinking  her  own  thoughts  ;  or  perhaps  those  of  the 
elder  lady  took  the  form  of  prayers.  At  last  Eleanor 
raised  her  head  and  kissed  her  aunt's  lip.  earnestly. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  let  me  come  to  Plassy !"  she 
said. 

"  I  shall  keep  you  here  now.  You  will  not  wish  to  be 
at  home  again  for  some  time." 

"  No,  ma'am.    No  indeed  I  shall  not." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Mr.  Carlisle  ?" 

"  I  shall  write  to-morrow.     Or  to-night." 

"  And  tell  him  ?— " 

"  The  plain  truth,  aunt  Caxton.  I  mean,  the  truth  of 
the  fact,  of  course.  It  is  very  hard !" — said  Eleanor  sor 
rowfully. 

"  It  is  doubtless  hard ;  but  it  is  the  least  of  all  the 
thoice  of  evils  you  have  left  yourself.  Write  to-night, — 


AT    THE     FAEM.  303 

and  here,  if  you  will.  If  you  can  without  being  dis 
turbed  by  me." 

"  The  sight  of  you  will  only  help  me,  aunt  Caxton. 
But  1  did  not  know  the  harm  I  was  doing  when  I  en 
tered  into  all  this." 

"  I  believe  it.     Go  and  write  your  letter." 

Eleanor  brought  her  paper-case  and  sat  down  at  the 
table.  Mrs.  Caxton  ordered  other  lights  and  was  mutely 
busy  at  her  own  table.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  for  a 
good  while.  It  was  with  a  strange  mixture  of  pain  and 
bursting  gladness  that  Eleanor  wrote  the  letter  which 
she  hoped  would  set  her  free.  But  the  gladness  was 
enough  to  make  her  sure  it  ought  to  be  Avritten ;  and 
the  pain  enough  to  make  it  a  bitter  piece  of  work.  The 
letter  was  finished,  folded,  sealed  ;  and  with  a  sigh  Elea 
nor  closed  her  paper-case. 

"  What  sort  of  a  clergyman  have  you  at  home  ?"  Mrs. 
Caxton  asked.  She  had  not  spoken  till  then. 

"  He  is  a  kind'old  man — he  is  a  good  man,"  Eleanor 
said,  picking  for  words ;  "  I  like  him.  He  is  not  a  very 
interesting  preacher." 

"  Did  you  ever  hold  any  talk  with  him  on  your 
thoughts  of  hope,  and  fear  ?" 

"  I  could  not,  ma'am.  I  have  tried  ;  but  I  could  not 
bring  him  to  the  point.  He  referred  me  to  confirmation 
and  to  doing  my  duty  ;  he  did  no,t  help  me." 

"  It  is  not  a  happy  circumstance,  that  his  public  teach 
ing  should  raise  questions  which  his  private  teaching 
cannot  answer." 

"  O  it  did  not !"  said  Eleanor.  "  Dr.  Cairnes  never 
raised  a  question  in  anybody's  mind,  I  am  sure ;  never 
in  mine." 

"  The  light  that  sprung  up  in  your  mind  then,  came 
you  do  not  know  whence  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  do,"  said  Eleanor  with  a  little  difii- 
culty.  "It  ca^ie  from  the  words  and  teaching  of  y 


304  THE      OLD      H  E  L  M  K  1  . 

living  example.     But  in  me  it  seems  to  be  only  dark 
ness." 

Mrs.  Caxton  said  no  more,  and  Eleanor  added  no 
more.  The  servants  came  in  to  family  prayer  ;  and  then 
they  took  their  candles  and  bade  each  other  an  affec 
tionate  good  night.  And  Eleanor  slept  that  night  with 
out  dreaming. 


CHAPTEE    XVII. 

"  For  something  that  abode  endned 

"With  temple-like  repose,  an  air 
Of  life's  kind  purposes  pursued 

"With  order'd  freedom  sweet  and  fair. 
A  tent  pitched  in  a  world  not  right 

It  seem'd,  whose  inmates,  every  one, 
On  tranquil  faces,  bore  the  light 

Of  duties  beautifully  done." 

How  did  the  days  pass  after  that  ?  In  restless  anxiety, 
with  Eleanor  ;  in  miserable  uncertainty  and  remorse  and 
Borrow.  She  counted  the  hours  till  her  despatch  could 
be  in  Mr.  Carlisle's  hands  ;  then  she  figured  to  herself 
the  pain  it  would  cause  him  ;  then  she  doubted  fearfully 
what  the  immediate  effect  would  be.  It  might  be,  to 
bring  him  down  to  Plassy  with  the  utmost  speed  of  post- 
horses  ;  and  again  Eleanor  reckoned  the  stages  and  esti- 

7  O  O 

mated  the  speed  at  which  Mr.  Carlisle's  postillions  could 
be  made  to  travel,  and  the  time  when  it  would  be  possi 
ble  for  this  storm  to  burst  upon  Plassy.  That  day  Elea 
nor  begged  the  pony  and  went  out.  She  wandered  for 
hours,  among  unnumbered,  and  almost  unheeded,  beau 
ties  of  mountain  and  vale ;  came  home  at  a  late  hour, 
and  crept  in  by  a  back  entrance.  No  stranger  had  come ; 
the  storm  had  not  burst  yet;  and  Mrs.  Caxton  was 
moved  to  pity  all  the  supper  time  and  hours  of  the  even 
ing,  at  the  state  of  fear  and  constraint  in  which  Eleanor 
evidently  dwelt. 

"  My  deAr,  did  you  like  this  man  ?"  she  said  when 
they  were  bidding  each  other  good  night. 


306  THE      OLD     HELMET. 

"  Mr.  Carlisle  ? — yes,  very  well ;  if  only  he  had  not 
wanted  me  to  marry  him." 

"  But  you  fear  him,  Eleanor." 

"  Because,  aunt  Caxton,  he  always  had  a  way  of 
making  me  do  just  what  he  wished." 

"  Are  you  so  easily  governed,  Eleanor,  by  one  whom 
you  do  not  love  ?  I  should  not  have  thought  it." 

"  I  do  not  know  how  it  was,  aunty.  I  had  begun 
wrong,  in  the  first  place ;  I  was  in  a  false  position ; — and 
lately  Mr.  Carlisle  has  taken  it  into  his  head,  very  unnec 
essarily,  to  be  jealous ;  and  I  could  not  move  a  step 
without  subjecting  myself  to  a  false  imputation." 

,"  Good  night,  my  dear,"  said  her  aunt.  "  If  he 
comes,  I  will  take  all  imputations  on  myself." 

But  Mr.  Carlisle  did  not  come.  Day  passed  after  day ; 
and  the  intense  fear  Eleanor  had  at  first  felt  changed  to 
a  somewhat  quieter  anticipation ;  though  she  never  came 
home  from  a  ride  without  a  good  deal  of  circumspection 
about  getting  into  the  house.  At  last,  one  day  when  she 
was  sitting  with  her  aunt  the  messenger  came  from  the 
post,  and  one  of  those  letters  was  handed  to  Eleanor  that 
she  knew  so  well ;  with  the  proud  seal  and  its  crest.  Par 
ticularly  full  and  well  made  she  thought  this  seal  was  • 
though  that  was  not  so  very  uncommon,  and  perhaps  she 
was  fanciful ;  but  it  was  a  magnificent  seal,  and  the  lines 
of  the  outer  handwriting  were  very  bold  and  firm.  Elea 
nor's  cheeks  lost  some  colour  as  she  opened  the  envel 
ope,  which  she  did  without  breaking  the  bright  black 
wax.  Her  own  letter  was  all  the  enclosure. 

The  root  of  wrong  even  unconsciously  planted,  will 
bear  its  own  proper  and  bitter  fruits ;  and  Eleanor  tasted 
them  that  day,  and  the  next  and  the  next.  She  was  free ; 
she  was  secure  from  even  an  attempt  to  draw  her  back 
into  the  bonds  she  had  broken ;  when  Mr.  Carlisle's  pride 
had  taken  up  the  question  there  was  no  danger  of  his 
ever  relenting  or  faltering  ;  and  pi-ide  had  thrown  back 


AT     GLANOG.  307 

her  letter  of  withdrawal  in  her  face.  She  was  free ;  but 
she  knew  she  had  given  pain,  and  that  more  feeling  was 
stung  in  Mr.  Carlisle's  heart  than  his  pride. 

"  He  will  get  over  it,  my  dear,"  said  her  aunt  coolly. 
But  Eleanor  shed  many  tears  for  a  day  or  two,  over 
the  wrong  she  had  done.  Letters  from  Ivy  Lodge  did 
not  help  her. 

"  Home  is  very  disagreeable  now,"  wrote  her  little 
sister  Julia ;  "  mamma  is  crying  half  the  day,  and  the 
other  half  she  does  not  feel  comfortable — "  (a  gentle 
statement  of  the  case.)  "  And  papa  is  very  much  vexed, 
and  keeps  out  of  doors  the  whole  time  and  Alfred  with 
him ;  and  Mr.  Rhys  is  gone  away,  and  I  have  got  no 
body.  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do,  if  Mr.  Rhys  had 
not  taught  me ;  but  now  I  can  pray.  Dear  Eleanor,  do 
you  pray  ?  I  wish  you  were  coming  home  again,  but 
mamma  says  you  are  not  coming  in  a  great  while  ;  and 
Mr.  Rhys  is"  never  coming  back.  He  said  so." 

Mrs.  Powle's  letter  was  in  strict  accordance  with 
Julia's  description  of  matters ;  desperately  angry  and  mor 
tified.  The  only  comfort  was,  that  in  her  mortification 
she  desired  Eleanor  to  keep  away  from  home  and  out  of 
her  sight ;  so  Eleanor  with  a  certain  rest  of  heart  in 
spite  of  all,  prepared  herself  for  a  long  quiet  sojourn 
with  her  aunt  at  the  cheese-farm  of  Plassy.  Mrs.  Cax- 
ton  composedly  assured  her  that  all  this  vexation  would 
bloAV  over  ;  and  Eleanor's  own  mind  was  soon  fain  to  lay 
off  its  care  and  content  itself  in  a  nest  of  peace.  Mrs. 
Caxton's  house  was  that,  to  anybody  worthy  of  enjoying 
it ;  and  to  Eleanor  it  had  all  the  joy  not  only  of  fitness 
but  of  novelty.  But  for  a  lingering  care  on  the  subject 
of  the  other  question  that  had  occupied  her,  Eleanor 
would  in  a  little  while  have  been  happier  than  at  any 
former  time  in  her  life.  How  was  it  Avith  that  question, 
which  had  pressed  so  painfully  hard  during  weeks  and 
months  past  ?  now  that  leisure  and  opportunity  were 


808  THE      OLD     HELMET. 

full  and  broad  to  take  it  up  and  attend  to  it.  So  they 
were ;  but  with  the  removal  of  difficulty  came  in  some 
degree  the  relaxing  of  effort ;  opportunity  bred  ease.  It 
was  so  simple  a  thing  to  be  good  at  Plassy,  that  Elea 
nor's  cry  for  it  became  less  bitter.  Mrs.  Caxton's  pres 
ence,  words,  and  prayers,  kept  the  thought  constantly 
alive  ;  yet  with  more  of  soothing  and  hopeful  than  of 
exciting  influence  ;  and  while  Eleanor  constantly  wished 
she  were  happy  like  her,  she  nevertheless  did  not  fail  to 
be  happy  in  her  own  way. 

The  aunt  and  niece  were  excellently  suited  to  each 
other,  and  took  abundant  delight  in  each  other's  com 
pany.  Eleanor  found  that  what  had  been  defective  in 
her  own  education  was  in  the  way  to  be  supplied  and 
made  up  to  her  singularly ;  here,  of  all  places,  on  a 
cheese-farm !  So  it  was.  To  her  accomplishments  and 
materials  of  knowledge,  she  now  found  suddenly  super- 
added,  the  necessity  and  the  practice  of  thinking.  In 
Mrs.  Caxtou's  house  it  was  impossible  to  help  it.  Judg 
ment,  conscience,  reason,  and  good  sense,  were  constantly 
brought  into  play ;  upon  things  already  known  and 
things  until  then  not  familiar.  In  the  reading  of  books, 
of  which  they  did  a  good  deal ;  in  the  daily  discussion 
of  the  newspaper ;  in  the  business  of  every  hour,  in  the 
intercourse  with  every  neighbour,  Eleanor  found  herself 
always  stimulated  and  obliged  to  look  at  things  from  a 
new  point  of  view  ;  to  consider  them  with  new  lights  ; 
to  try  them  by  a  new  standard.  As  a  living  creature, 
made  and  put  here  to  live  for  something,  she  felt  herself 
now  ;  as  in  a  world  where  everybody  had  like  trusts  to 
fulfil  and  was  living  mindful  or  forgetful  of  his  trust. 
How  mindful  Mrs.  Caxton  was  of  hers,  Eleanor  began 
every  day  with  increasing  admiration  to  see  more  and 
more.  To  her  servants,  to  her  neighbours,  with  her 
money  and  her  time  and  her  sympathies,  for  little  pres 
ent  interests  and  for  world- wide  and  everlasting  ones, 


AT     GLANOG.  309 

Mrs.  Caxton  was  ever  ready,  active,  watchful ;  hands  full 
and  head  full  and  heart  full.  That  motive  power  of  her 
one  mind  and  will,  Eleanor  gradually  found,  was  the  cen 
tre  and  spring  of  a  vast  machinery  of  good,  working  so 
quietly  and  so  beneficently  as  proved  it  had  been  in  oper 
ation  a  long,  long  time.  It  was  a  daily  deep  lesson 
to  Eleanor,  going  deeper  and  deeper  every  day.  The 
roots  were  striking  down  that  would  shoot  up  and  bear 
fruit  by  and  by. 

Eleanor  was  a  sweet  companion  to  her  aunt  all  those 
months.  In  her  fresh,  young,  rich  nature,  Mrs.  Caxton 
had  presently  seen  the  signs  of  strength,  without  which 
no  character  Avould  have  suited  her ;  while  Eleanor's 
temper  was  of  the  finest ;  and  her  mind  went  to  work 
vigorously  upon  whatever.was  presented  for  its  action. 
Mrs.  Caxton  wisely  took  care  to  give  it  an  abundance 
of  work  ;  and  furthermore  employed  Eleanor  in  busy 
offices  of  kindness  and  help  to  others ;  as  an  assistant  in 
some  of  her  own  plans  and  habits  of  good.  Many  a 
ride  Eleanor  took  on  the  Welsh  pony,  to  see  how  some 
sick  person  was  getting  on,  or  to  carry  supplies  to  an 
other,  or  to  give  instruction  to  another,  or  to  oversee 
and  direct  the  progress  of  matters  on  which  yet  another 
was  engaged.  This  was  not  new  work  to  her;  yet  now 
it  was  done  in  the  presence  at  least,  if  not  under  the 
pressure,  of  a  higher  motive  than  she  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  bring  to  it.  It  took  in  some  degree  another 
character.  Eleanor  was  never  able  to  forget  now  that 
these  people  to  whom  she  was  ministering  hactanore  of 
the  immortal  in  them  than  of  even  the  earthly ;  she  was 
never  able  to  forget  it  of  herself.  And  busy  and  happy 
as  the  winter  was,  there  often  came  over  her  those  weary 
longings  for  something  which  she  had  not  yet;  the 
something  which  made  her  aunt's  course  daily  so  clear 
and  calm  and  bright.  What  sort  of  happiness  would  be 
Eleanoi-'s  when  she  got  back  to  Ivy  Lodge  ?  She  asked 


310  THE     OLD    HKLMET. 

herself  that  question  sometimes.  Her  present  happiness 
was  superficial. 

The  spring  meamvhile  drew  near,  and  signs  of  it  began 
to  be  seen  and  felt,  and  heard.  And  one  evening  Mrs. 
Caxton  got  out  the  plan  of  her  garden,  and  began  to 
consider  in  detail  its  arrangements,  with  a  view  to  com 
ing  operations.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  Mrs.  Caxton  at 
this  work,  and  to  hear  her ;  she  was  in  her  element. 
Eleanor  was  much  surprised  to  find  not  only  that  her 
aunt  was  her  own  head  gai'dener,  but  that  she  had  an 
exquisite  knowledge  of  the  business. 

"  This  sulphured  I  think  is  dead,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Caxton.  "  I  must  have  another.  Eleanor — what  is  the 
matter  ?" 

"  Ma'am  ?" 

"You  are  drawing  a  very  long  breath,  my  dear. 
Where  did  it  come  from  ?" 

The  reserve  which  Eleanor  had  all  her  life  practised 
before  other  people,  had  almost  from  the  first  given  way 
before  her  aunt. 

"  From  a  thought  of  home,  aunt  Caxton.  I  shall  not 
be  so  happy  when  I  get  back  there." 

"The  happiness  that  will  not  bear  transportation, 
Eleanor,  is  a  very  poor  article.  But  they  will  not  want 
you  at  home." 

"  I  am  afraid  of  it." 

"  Without  reason.  You  will  not  go  home  this  spring, 
my  dear  ;  trust  me.  You  are  mine  for  a  good  long  time 

yet." 

Mrs.  Caxton  was  wiser  than  Eleanor ;  as  was  soon 
proved.  Mrs.  Powle  wrote,  desiring  her  daughter, 
whatever  she  did,  not  to  come  home  then ;  nor  soon. 
People  would  think  she  was  come  home  for  her  wed 
ding  ;  and  questions  innumerable  would  be  asked,  the 
mortification  of  which  would  be  unbearable.  Whereas, 
if  Eleanor  kept  away,  the  dismal  certainty  would  by 


AT     GL  A  NOG.  311 

degrees  become  public,  that  there  was  to  be  no  match  at 
all  between  Rythdale  and  the -Lodge.  "  Stay  away  till 
it  is  all  blown  over,  Eleanor,"  wrote  her  mother  ;  "  it  is 
the  least  you  can  do  for  your  family."  And  the  squire 
even  sent  a  word  of  a  letter,  more  kind,  but  to  the  same 
effect.  He  wanted  his  bright  daughter  at  home,  he 
said  ;  he  missed  her  ;  but  in  the  circumstances,  perhaps 
it  would  be  best,  if  her  aunt  would  be  so  good  as  to 
keep  her, — 

Eleanor  carried  these  letters  to  Mrs.  Caxton,  with  a 
tear  in  her  eye,  and  an  humbled,  pained  face. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  her  aunt.  "  How  could  people 
expect  that  Mr.  Cai-lisle's  marriage  would  take  place  three 
months  after  the  death  of  his  mother  ?  that  is  what  I 
do  not  understand." 

"  They  arranged  it  so,  and  it  was  given  out,  I  sup 
pose.  Everything  gets  known.  He  was  going  abroad 
in  the  spring,  or  immediately  after  ;  and  meant  not  to  go 
without  me." 

"  Now  you  are  my  child,  my  dear,  and  shall  help  me 
with  my  roses,"  said  her  aunt  kissing  her,  and  taking 
Eleanor  in  her  arms.  "  Eleanor,  is  that  second  question 
settled  yet  ?" 

"  No,  aunt  Caxton." 

"  You  have  not  chosen  yet  which  master  you  will 
serve, — the  world  or  the  Lord  ?" 

"  O  yes,  ma'am — I  have  decided  that.  I  know  whiclf 
I  want  to  be." 

"  But  not  which  you  will  be. 

"  I  mean  that,  ma'am." 

"  You  are  not  a  servant  of  the  Lord  now,  Eleanor  ?" 

"  No,  aunt  Caxton — I  don't  see  how.     I  am  dark." 

"  Christ  says,  '  He  that  is  not  with  me  is  against  me. 
A  question  that  is  undecided,  decides  itself.  Eleanor, 
decide  this  question  to-night." 

"To-night,  ma'am?" 


312  THE      OLD      H  E  L  M  K  T  . 

"  Yes.     I  am  going  to  send  you  to  church." 

"  To  church  !  There  is  no  service  to-night,  aunt  Car. 
ton." 

"  Not  at  the  church  where  you  have  been — in  the  vil 
lage.  There  is  a  little  church  in  the  valley  beyond  Mrs. 
Pynce's  cottage.  You  are  going  there." 

"  I  do  not  remember  any.  Why  aunt  Caxton,  the 
valley  is  too  narrow  there  for  anything  but  the  road  and 
the  brook  ;  the  mountains  leave  no  room — hardly  room 
for  her  house." 

"You  have  never  been  any  further.  Do  you  not 
remember  a  sharp  turn  just  beyond  that  place?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  You  will  see  the  chapel  when  you  get  round  the 
turn." 

The  place  Mrs.  Caxton  alluded  to,  was  a  wild,  seclud 
ed,  most  beautiful  valley,  the  bottom  of  which  as  Elea 
nor  said  was  almost  filled  up  with  the  road,  and  the 
brook  which  rushed  along  its  course  to  meet  the  river ; 
itself  almost  as  large  as  another  river.  Where  the  peo 
ple  could  be  found  to  go  to  a  church  in  such  a  region,  she 
could  not  imagine.  Heather  clothed  the  hills ;  fairy  cas 
cades  leaped  down  the  rocks  at  every  turning,  lovely  as 
a  dream ;  the  whole  scene  was  wild  and  lonely.  Hardly 
any  human  habitations  or  signs  of  human  action  broke 
Jhe  wild  reign  of  nature  all  the  valley  through.  Elea 
nor  was  sure  of  a  charming  ride  at  least,  whether  there 
was  to  be  a  congregation  in  the  church  at  the  end  of  it 
or  no ;  and  she  prepared  herself  accordingly.  Mrs. 
Caxton  was  detained  at  home  ;  the  car  did  not  go  ;  three 
or  four  of  the  household,  men  and  women,  went  on 
ponies  as  Eleanor  did. 

They  set  off  very  early,  while  the  light  was  fair  and 
beautiful  yet,  for  the  ride  was  of  some  length.  It  was 
not  on  the  way  to  the  village ;  it  turned  off  from  the  fine 
high  road  to  a  less  practised  and  more  uneven  track.  It 


AT     G  L  A  N  O  G.  313 

was  good  for  horses;  aud  ridiug  in  front,  a  little  ahead 
of  her  companions,  Eleanor  had  the  luxury  of  being 
alone.  Why  had  Mrs.  Caxton  bade  her  "  settle  that 
question  "  to-night  ?  How  could  she  ;  when  her  mind 
was  in  so  much  darkness  and  confusion  on  the  subject  ? 
Yet  Eleanor  hardly  knew  specifically  what  the  hindrance 
was ;  only  it  was  certain  that  while  she  wished  and 
intended  to  be  a  Christian,  she  was  no  nearer  the  point, 
so  far  as  she  could  see,  than  she  had  been  months  ago. 
Nay,  Eleanor  confessed  to  herself  that  in  the  sweet 
quiet  and  peace  of  her  aunt's  house,  and  m  her  own 
release  from  pressing  trouble,  she  had  rather  let  all 
troublesome  thoughts  slip  away  from  her;  so  that, 
though  not  forgotten,  the  subject  had  been  less  painfully 
on  her  mind  than  through  the  weeks  that  went  before 
her  coming  to  Plassy.  She  had  wished  for  leisure  and 
quiet  to  attend  to  it  and  put  that  pain  to  rest  for  ever ; 
and  in  leisure  and  quiet  she  had  suffered  pain  to  go  to 
sleep  in  a  natural  way  and  left  all  the  business  of  dealing 
with  it  to  be  deferred  till  the  time  of  its  waking.  How 
was  all  this?  Eleanor  walked  her  pony 'slowly  along, 
aud  thought.  Then  she  had  been  freshly  under  the  in 
fluence  of  Mr.  Rhys  and  his  preaching  ;  the  very  remem 
brance  of  which,  now  and  here,  stirred  her  like  an 
alarum  bell.  Ay,  and  more  than  that ;  it  wakened  the 
keen  longing  for  that  beauty  and  strength  of  life  which 
had  so  shewn  her  her  own  poverty.  Humbled  and  sadj 
Eleanor  walked  her  pony  on  and  on,  while  each  little 
crystal  torrent  that  came  with  its  sweet  clear  rush  and 
sparkle  down  the  rocks,  tinkled  its  own  little  silver  bell 
note  in  her  ears ;  a  note  of  purity  and  action.  Eleanor 
had  never  heard  it  from  them  before ;  now  somehow 
each  rushing  streamlet,  with  its  bright  leap  over  obsta 
cles  and  its  joyous  dash  onward  in  its  course,  sounded 
the  same  note.  Nothing  could  be  more  lovely  than 
these  cascades ;  every  one  different  from  the  others,  as 
14 


314  THE      OLD      II  E  I,  M  K  T  . 

if  to  shew  how  many  forms  of  beauty  water  could  take, 
Eleanor  noticed  and  heard  them  every  one  and  the  call 
of.  every  one,  and  rode  on  in  a  pensive  mood  till  Mrs. 
Pynce's  cottage  was  passed  and  the  turn  in  the  valley 
just  beyond  opened  up  a  new  scene  for  her. 

How  lovely !  how  various !  The  straitened  dell 
spread  out  gradually  from  this  point  into  a  compara 
tively  broad  valley,  bordered  with  higher  hills  as  it  wid 
ened  in  the  distance.  The  light  still  shewed  its  entran 
cing  beauty ;  wooded,  and  spotted  with  houses  and 
habitations  -of  all  kinds  ;  from  the  very  humble  to  the 
very  lordly,  and  from  the  business  factories  of  to-day, 
back  to  the  ruined  strongholds  of  the  time  when  war 
was  business.  Wide  and  delicious  the  view  was,  as 
much  as  it  was  unexpected ;  and  spring's  softened  col 
ouring  was  all  over  it.  Eleanor  made  a  pause  of  a  few 
seconds  as  soon  as  all  this  burst  upon  her ;  her  next 
thought  was  to  look  for  the  church.  And  it  was  plain 
to  see  ;  a  small  dark  edifice,  in  excellent  keeping  with  its 
situation  ;  because  of  its  colour  and  its  simple  structure, 
which  half  merged  it  among  the  rocks  and  the  hills. 

"That  is  the  church,  John?"  Eleanor  said  to  Mrs. 
Caxton's  factotum. 

"  That  is  it,  ma'am.  There's  been  no  minister  there 
for  a  good  piece  of  the  year  back." 

"  And  what  place  is  this  ?" 

"  There's  no  place,  to  call  it,  ma'am.  It's  the  valley 
of  Glanog." 

Eleanor  jumped  off  her  pony  and  went  into  the  church. 
She  had  walked  her  pony  too  much ;  it  was  late ;  the 
service  had  begun ;  and  Eleanor  was  taken  with  a  sudden 
tremor  at  hearing  the  voice  that  was  reading  the  hymn. 
She  had  no  need  to  look  to  see  whose  it  was.  She 
walked  up  the  aisle,  seeking  a  vacant  place  to  sit  down, 
and  exceedingly  desirous  to  find  it,  for  she  was  conscious 
that  she  was  right  under  the  preacher's  eye  and  observa- 


AT     GLANOG.  315 

tion  ;  but  as  one  never  does  well  what  one  does  in  con 
fusion,  she  overlooked  one  or  two  chances  that  offered,- 
and  did  not  get  a  seat  till  she  was  far  forward,  in  the 
place  of  fullest  view  for  both  seeing  and  being  seen. 
And  there  she  sat  down,  asking  herself  what  should 
make  her  tremble  so.  Why  had  her  aunt  Caxton  sent 
her  that  evening,  alone,  to  hear  Mr.  Rhys  preach  ?  And 
why  not?  what  was  there  about  it?  She  was  very 
glad,  she  knew,  to  hear  him ;  but  there  would  be  no 
more  apathy  or  languor  in  her  mind  now  on  the  subject 
of  that  question  her  aunt  had  desired  her  to  settle.  No 
more.  The  very  sound  of  that  speaker's  voice  woke  her 
conscience  to  a  sharp  sense  of  what  she  had  been  about 
all  these  months  since  she  had  heard  it  last.  She  bent 
her  head  in  her  hand  for  a  little  while,  in  a  rushing  of 
thoughts — or  ideas — that  prevented  her  senses  from  act 
ing  ;  then  the  words  the  people  were  singing  around  her 
made  their  entrance  into  her  ear ;  an  entrance  opened 
by  the  sweet  melody.  The  words  were  given  very 
plain. 

"  No  room  for  mirth  or  trifling  here, 
For  worldly  hope,  or  -worldly  fear, 

If  life  so  soon  is  gone ; 
If  now  the  Judge  is  at  the  door, 
And  all  mankind  must  stand  before 

Th'  inexorable  throne ! 

"  No  matter,  which  my  thoughts  employ, 
A  moment's  misery  or  joy ; 

But  0  !  when  both  shall  end, 
Where  shall  I  find  my  destined  place  ? 
Shall  I  my  everlasting  days 

"With  fiends  or  angels  spend?" 

Eleanor  sat  cowering  before  that  thought.  "  Now 
ire  we  going  to  have  a  terrible  sermon  ?"  was  her  in 
ward  question.  She  would  not  look  up.  The  prelimi- 


310  TIIE     OLD     HELMET. 

nary  services  were  all  over,  she  found,  and  the  preacher 
rose  and  gave  out  his  text. 

"  A  glorious  high  throne  from  the  beginning,  is  the 
place  of  our  sanctuary.'  " 

Eleanor  could  not  keep  her  eyes  lowered  another 
second.  The  well-known  deliberate  utterance,  and  a 
little  unconscious  indefinable  ring  of  the  tones  in  which 
the  Avords  were  sjooken,  brought  her  eyes  to  the  speaker's 
face ;  and  they  were  never  turned  away  again.  "  Do 
we  need  a  sanctuary  ?" — was  the  first  question  the 
preacher  started ;  and  very  quietly  he  went  on  to  discuss 
that.  Very  quietly ;  his  manner  and  his  voice  were 
neither  in  the  slightest,  degree  excited ;  how  it  was, 
Eleanor  did  not  know,  that  as  he  went  on  a  tide  of  feel- 
Ing  swept  over  the  assembly.  She  could  see  it  in  the 
evidences  of  tears,  and  she  heard  it  in  a  deep  sough  of 
the  breath  that  went  all  over  the  house.  The  preacher 
was  reaching  each  one's  secret  consciousness,  and  stir 
ring  into  life  that  deep  hidden  want  of  every  heart 
which  every  heart  knew  differently.  Some  from  sorrow ; 
some  from  sin  ;  some  from  weariness  ;  some  from  loneli 
ness  ;  some  from  the  battle  of  life ;  some  from  the  strug 
gle  with  their  own  hearts ;  all,  from  the  wrath  to  come. 
Nay,  Eleanor's  own  heart  was  throbbing  with  the  sense 
that  he  had  reached  it  and  touched  it,  and  knew  its  con 
dition.  How  was  it,  that  with  those  quiet  words  he  had 
bowed  every  spirit  before  him,  her  own  among  the  num 
ber  ?  It  is  true,  that  in  the  very  containedness  of  his 
tones  and  words  there  was  an  evidence  of  suppressed 
power ;  it  flashed  out  once  in  a  while ;  and  wrought 
possibly  with  the  more  effect  from  the  feeling  that  it  was 
contained  and  kept  down.  However  it  were,  the  minds 
of  the  assembly  were  already  at  a  high  state  of  tension, 
when  he  passed  to  the  other  part  of  his  subject — the 
consideration  of  the  sanctuary.  It  was  no  discourse 
of  regular  heads  and  divisions ;  it  is  impossible  to  report, 


ATGLANOG.  317 

except  as  to  its  effects.  The  preacher's  head  and  hearl 
were  both  full,  and  words  had  no  stint.  But  in  this  lat 
ter  part  of  his  subject,  the  power  which  had  been  so 
contained  was  let  loose,  though  still  kept  within  bounds. 
The  eye  fired  now,  and  the  voice  quivered  with  its 
charge,  as  he  endeavoured  to  set  before  the  minds  of  the 
people  the  glorious  vision  which  filled  his  own ;  to  make 
known  to  others  the  "  riches  of  glory"  in  which  his  own 
soul  rested  and  rejoiced.  So  evidently,  that  his  hearers 
half  caught  at  what  he  would  shew  them,  by  the  catch 
ing  of  sympathy ;  and  from  different  parts  of  the  house 
now  there  went  up  a  suppressed  cry,  of  want,  or  of  ex 
ultation,  as  the  case  might  be,  which  it  was  very  thrill 
ing  to  hear.  It  was  the  sense  of  want  and  pain  in  Elea 
nor's  mind  ;  not  spoken  indeed  except  by  her  counte 
nance  ;  but  that  toned  strongly  with  the  notes  of  feeling 
that  were  uttered  around  her.  As  from  the  bottom  of  a 
dark  abyss  into  which  he  had  fallen,  a  person  might  look 
up  to  the  bright  sky,  of  which  he  could  see  but  a  little, 
which  yet  would  give  him  token  of  all  the  firmamental 
light  and  beauty  up  there  which  he  had  not.  From  her 
darkness  Eleanor  saw  it ;  saw  it  in  the  preacher's  face 
and  words ;  yes,  and  heard  it  in  many  a  deep-breathed 
utterance  of  gladness  or  thanksgiving  at  her  side.  She 
had  never  felt  so  dark  in  her  life  as  when  she  left  the 
church.  She  rushed  away  as  soon  as  the  service  was 
over,  lest  any  one  should  speak  to  her  ;  however  she  had 
to  wait  some  time  outside  the  door  before  John  came 
out.  The  people  all  tarried  strangely. 

"  Beg  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  John,  "  but  we  was  wait 
ing  a  bit  to  see  the  minister." 

Eleanor  rode  home  fast,  through  fair  moonlight  with 
out  and  great  obscurity  within  her  own  spirit.  She 
avoided  her  aunt;  she  did  not  want  to  speak  of  the 
meeting ;  she  succeeded  in  having  no  talk  about  it  that 
night. 


CHAPTEE    XYIII. 

"  I  glanced  within  a  rock's  cleft  breast, 
A  lonely,  safely-sheltered  nest. 
There  as  successive  seasons  go, 
And  tides  alternate  ebb  and  flow, 
Full  many  a  wing  is  trained  for  flight 
In  heaven's  blue  field — in  heaven's  broad  light." 

THE  next  morning  at  breakfast  Eleanor  and  her  aunt 
were  alone  as  usual.  There  was  no  avoiding  any 
thing. 

"  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  evening  ?"  Mrs.  Caxton 
asked. 

"  I  had  a  very  pleasant  ride,  aunt  Caxton." 

"  How  was  the  sermon  ?" 

"  It  was — I  suppose  it  was  very  good  ;  but  it  was  very 
peculiar."  • 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am ; — it  excited  the  people  very 
much.    They  could  not  keep  still." 
*  "  Do  you  like  preaching  better  that  does  not  excite 
people  ?" 

Eleanor  hesitated.  "  No,  ma'am ;  but  I  do  not  like 
them  to  make  a  noise." 

"  What  sort  of  a  noise  ?" 

Eleanor  paused  again,  and  to  her  astonishment  found 
her  own  lip  quivering  and  her  eyes  watering  as  she  an 
swered, — "  It  was  a  noise  of  weeping  and  of  shouting — 
not  loud  shouting ;  but  that  is  what  it  was." 

"  I  have  often  known  sucji  effects  under  faithful  pre 
senting  of  the  truth,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton  composedly 


AT     MKS.     POWLIS'S.  319 

*'  When  people's  feelings  are  much  moved,  it  is  very 
natural  to  give  them  expression." 

"  For  uncultivated  people,  particularly." 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  cultivation,"  said  Mrs.  Cax- 
ton.  "  Robert  Hall's  sermons  used  to  leave  two  thirds 
of  his  hearers  on  their  feet.  I  have  seen  a  man  in  mid 
dle  life,  a  judge  in  the  courts,  one  of  the  heads  of  the 
community  in  which  he  lived,  so  excited  that  he  could 
not  undo  the  fastenings  of  his  pew  door ;  and  he  put  his 
foot  on  the  seat  and  sprang  over  into  the  aisle." 

"  Do  you  like  such  things,  aunt  Caxton  ?" 

"  I  prefer  another  mode  of  getting  out  of  church,  my 
dear." 

"  But  shouting,  or  crying  out,  is  what  people  of  refine 
ment  would  not  do,  even  if  they  could  not  open  their 
pew  doors." 

Eleanor  was  a  little  sorry  the  moment  she  had  uttered 
this  speech ;  her  spirits  were  in  a  whirl  of  disorder  and 
uncomfortableness,  and  she  had  spoken  hastily.  Mrs. 
Caxton  answered  with  great  composure. 

"  What  do  you  call  those  words  that  you  are  accus 
tomed  to  hear,  the  '  Gloria  in  Excelsis'  ? — '  Glory  be  to 
God  on  high,  and  on  earth  peace,  good  will  towards 
men.  We  praise  thee,  we  bless  thee,  we  worship  thee, 
•we  glorify  thee,  we  give  thanks  to  thee  for  thy  great 
glory,  O  Lord  God,  heavenly  King.' " 

"  What  do  you  call  it,  aunt  Caxton  ?" 

"  If  it  is  not  a  shout  of  joy,  I  can  make  nothing  of  it. 
Or  the  one  hundred  and  fiftieth  psalm — '  O  praise  God 
in  his  holiness  ;  praise  him  in  the  firmament  of  his  pow 
er.  Praise  him  in  his  noble  acts  ;  praise  him  according 
to  his  excellent  greatness.  Praise  him  in  the  sound  of 
the  trumpet ;  praise  him  upon  the  lute  and  harp. 
Praise  him  in  the  cymbals  and  dances ;  praise  him  upon 
the  strings  and  pipe.  Praise  him  upon  the  well  tuned 
cymbals ;  praise  him  upon  the  loud  cymbals.  Let  every 


320  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

thing  that  hath  breath  praise  the  Lord.' — What  is  that 
but  a  shout  of  praise  ?" 

"It  never  sounded  like  a  shout,"  said  Eleanor. 

"It  did  once,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton. 

"  When  was  that,  ma'am  ?" 

"  When  Ezra  sang  it,  with  the  priests  and  the  people 
to  help  him,  after  they  were  returned  from  captivity. 
Then  the  people  shouted  with  a  loud  shout,  and  the 
noise  was  heard  afar  off.     All  the  people  shouted  with  a  . 
great  shout,  when  they  praised  the  Lord." 

"  But  aunt  Caxton,"  said  Eleanor,  who  felt  herself 
taken  down  a  little,  as  a  secure  talker  is  apt  to  be  by  a 
manner  very  composed  in  his  opponent — "  it  is  surely  the 
habit  of  refined  persons  in  these  times  not  to  get  excited 
— or  not  to  express  their  feelings  very  publicly  ?" 

"  A  very  good  habit,"  said  Mrs.  Caxton.  "  Neverthe 
less  I  have  seen  a  man — a  gentleman — and  a  man  in  very 
high  standing,  in  a  public  assembly,  go  white  with  anger 
and  become  absolutely  speechless,  with  the  strength  of 
passion,  at  some  offence  he  had  taken." 

"  O  such  passions,  of  course,  will  display  themselves 
sometimes,"  said  Eleanor.  "Bad  passions  often  will. 
They  escape  control." 

"  I  have  seen  a  lady — a  lovely  and  refined  lady — faint 
away  at  the  sudden  tidings  that  a  child's  life  was  secure,. 
— whom  she  had  almost  given  up  for  lost." 

"  But,  dear  aunt  Caxton !  you  do  not  call  that  a  par 
allel  case  ?" 

"  A  parallel  case  with  what  ?" 

"  Anybody  might  be  excited  at  such  a  thing.  You 
would  wonder  if  they  were  not." 

"  I  do  not  see  the  justness  of  your  reasoning,  Eleanor. 
A  man  may  turn  white  with  passion,  and  it  is  natural ; 
a  woman  may  faint  with  joy  at  receiving  back  her  child 
from  death ;  and  you  are  not  suqjrised.  But  the  joy  of 
suddenly  seeing  eternal  life  one's  own — the  joy  of  know- 


AT     MBS.      POWLIS'S.  321 

ing  that  God  has  forgiven  our  sins — you  think  may  be 
borne  calmly.  I  have  known  people  faint  under  that 
joy  as  well." 

"Aunt  Caxton,"  said  Eleanor,  her  voice  growing 
hoarse,  "  I  do  not  see  how  anybody  can  have  it.  How 
can  they  know  their  sins  are  forgiven?" 

"  You  may  find  it  in  your  Bible,  Eleanor ;  did  you 
never  see  it  there  ?  '  The  Spirit  witnesseth  with  our 
spirit,  that  we  are  the  children  of  God.' " 

"  But  Paul  was  inspired  ?" 

"  Yes,  thank  God  ! — to  declare  that  dividend  of  pres 
ent  joy  to  all  shareholders  in  the  stock  of  eternal  life. 
But  doubtless,  only  faith  can  take  it  out." 

Eleanor  .sat  silent,  chewing  bitter  thoughts.  "O  this 
is  what  these  people  have !" — she  said  to  herself; — "this 
is  the  helmet  of  salvation  !  And  I  am  as  far  from  it  as 
ever !"  The  conversation  ended  there.  Eleanor  was 
miserable  all  day.  She  did  not  explain  herself;  Mrs. 
Caxton  only  saw  her  preoccupied,  moody,  and  silent. 

"  There  is  preaching  again  at  Glanog  to-night,"  she 
said  a  few  days  afterwards ;  •"  I  am  not  yet  quite  well 
enough  to  go.  Do  you  choose  to  go,  Eleanor?" 

Eleanor  looked  down  and  answered  yes. 

She  -went;  and  again,  and  again,  and  again.  Sun 
days  or  week  days,  Eleanor  missed  no  chance  of  riding 
her  pony  to  the  little  valley  church.  Mrs.  Caxton  gen 
erally  went  with  her,  after  the  first  week  ;  but  going  in 
her  car  she  was  no  hindrance  to  the  thoughtfulness  and 
solitude  of  the  rides*  on  horseback ;  and  Eleanor  some 
times  wept  all  the  way  home,  and  oftener  came  with  a 
confused  pain  in  her  heart,  dull  or  acute  as  the  case 
might  be.  She  saw  truth  that  seemed  beautiful  and  glo 
rious  to  her ;  she  saw  it  in  the  faces  and  lives  as  well  as 
in  the  words  of  others  ;  she  longed  to  share  their  immu 
nity  and  the  peace  she  perceived  them  possessed  of; 
but  how  to  lay  hold  of  it  she  could  not  find.  She 
14* 


322  THE      OLD      HELMET. 

seemed  to  herself  too  evil  ever  to  become  good  ;  she 
tried,  but  her  heart  seemed  as  hard  as  a  stone.  She 
prayed,  but  no  relief  came.  She  did  not  see  how  she 
could  be  saved,  while  evil  had  such  a  hold  of  her ;  and 
to  dislodge  it  she  was  powerless.  Eleanor  was  in  a  con 
stant  state  of  uneasiness  and  distress  now.  Her  usually 
fine  temper  was  more  easily  roughened  than  she  had  ever 
known  it ;  the  services  she  had  long  been  accustomed  to 
render  to  others  who  needed  her,  she  felt  it  now  very 
hard  to  give.  She  was  dissatisfied  with  herself  and  very 
unhappy,  and  she  said  to  herself  that  she  was  unfit  to 
properly  minister  to  anybody  else.  She  became  a  com 
paratively  silent  and  ungenial  companion  to  her  aunt. 
Mrs.  Caxton  perhaps  understood  her ;  for  she  made  no 
remark  on  this  change,  seemed  to  take  no  notice ;  was 
as  evenly  and  tenderly  affectionate  to  her  niece  as  ever 
before,  with  perhaps  a  little  added  expression  of  sympa 
thy  now  and  then.  She  did  not  even  ask  an  explanation 
of  Eleanor's  manner  of  getting  out  of  church. 

Eleanor  and  her  aunt,  as  it  happened,  always  occupied 
a  seat  very  near  the  front  and  almost  under  the  pulpit. 
It  had  been  Eleanor's  custom  ever  since  the  first  time  she 
came  there,  to  slip  out  of  her  seat  and  make  her  way 
down  the  aisle  with  eager  though  quiet  haste ;  leaving 
her  aunt  to  follow  at  her  leisure  ;  and  she  was  generally 
mounted  and  off  before  Mrs.  Caxton  reached  the  front 
door.  During  the  service  always  now,  Eleanor's  eyes 
were  fastened  upon  the  preacher ;  his  often  looked  at 
her;  he  recognized  her  of  course";  and  Eleanor  had  a 
vague  fear  that  if  she  were  not  out  of  the  way  he  would 
some  time  or  other  come  down  and  accost  her.  It  was 
an  unreasoning  fear ;  she  gave  no  account  of  it  to  her 
self;  except  that  her  mind  was  in  an  unsettled,  out-of- 
order  state,  that  would  not  bear  questioning  ;  and  if  he 
came  he  would  be  certain  to  question  her.  So  Eleanor 


AT     MKS.     POWLIS'S.  323 

fled^  and  let  her  aunt  do  the  talking— if  any  there  were. 
Eleanor  never  asked  and  never  knew. 

This  went  on  for  some  weeks.  Spring  had  burst  upon 
the  hills,  and  the  valleys  were  green  in  beauty  and  flush 
ing  with  flowers ;  and  Eleanor's  heart  was  barren  and 
cold  more  than  she  had  ever  felt  it  to  be.  She  began  to 
have  a  most  miserable  opinion  of  herself. 

It  happened  one  night,  what  rarely  happened,  that  Mi- 
Rhys  had  some  one  in  the  pulpit  with  him.  Eleanor  was 
sorry ;  she  grudged  to  have  even  the  closing  prayer  or 
hymn  given  by  another  voice.  But  it  was  so  this  even 
ing  ;  and  when  Eleanor  rose  as  usual  to  make  her  quick 
way  out  of  the  house,  she  found  that  somebody  else  had 
been  quick.  Mr.  Rhys  stood  beside  her.  It  was  impos 
sible  to  help  speaking.  He  had  clearly  come  down  for 
the  very  purpose.  He  shook  hands  with  Eleanor. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  he  said.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
here.  Is  your  mind  at  rest  yet  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Eleanor.  However  it  was,  this  meeting 
which  she  had  so  shunned,  was  not  entirely  unwelcome 
to  her  when  it  came.  If  anything  would  make  her  feel 
better,  or  any  counsel  do  her  good,  she  was  willing  to 
stand  even  questioning  that  might  lead  to  it.  Mr.  Rhys's 
questioning  on  this  occasion  was  not  very  severe.  He 
only  asked  her,  "  Have  you  ever  been  to  class  ?" 

"  To  what  ?"  said  Eleanor. 

"  To  a  class-meeting.     You  know  what  that  is  ?". 

"Yes, — I  know  a  little.    No,  I  have  never  been  to  one." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  at  mine.  We  meet  at  Mrs. 
Powlis's  in  the  village  of  Plassy,  Wednesday  afternoon." 

"  But  I  could  not  Mr.  Rhys.  It  would  not  be  possi 
ble  for  me  to  say  a  word  before  other  people ;  it  would 
not  be  possible." 

"  I  will  try  not  to  trouble  you  with  difficult  questions. 
Promise  me  that  you  will  come.  It  will  not  hurt  you  to 
near  others  speak." 


324  THE     OLD      HELMET. 

Eleanor  hesitated. 

"  Will  you  come  and  try  ?"  » 

t "  Yes." 

"  There !"  said  Eleanor  to  herself  as  she  rode  away,— • 
"  now  I  have  got  my  head  in  a  net,  and  I  am  fast.  I 
going  to  such  a  place !  What  business  have  I  there  ? — " 
And  yet  there  was  a  secret  gratification  in  the  hope  that 
somehow  this  new  plan  might  bring  her  good.  But  on 
the  whqle  Eleanor  disliked  it  excessively,  with  all  the 
power  of  nature  and  cultivation.  For  though  frank 
enough  to  those  whom  she  loved,  a  proud  reserve  was 
Eleanor's  nature  in  regard  to  all  others  whom  she  did  not 
love ;  and  the  habits  of  her  life  were  as  far  as  possible 
at  variance  with  this  proposed  meeting,  in  its  familiar 
and  social  religious  character.  She  could  not  conceive 
how  people  should  wish  to  speak  of  their  intimate  feel 
ings  before  other  people.  Her  own  shrank  from  expo 
sure  as  morbid  flesh  shrinks  from  the  touch.  However, 
Wednesday  came. 

"  Can  I  have  Powis  this  afternoon,  aunt  Caxton  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear ;  no  need  to  ask.  Powis  is  yours. 
Are  you  going  to  Mrs.  Pynce  ?" 

"  No  ma'am. — "  Eleanor  struggled. — "  Mr.  Rhys  has 
made  me  promise  to  go  to  his  class.  I  do  not  like  to  go 
at  all ;  but  I  have  promised." 

"You  will  like  to  go  next  time,"  said  Mi*s.  Caxton 
quietly.  And  she  said  no  more  than  that. 

"  Will  I  ?"  thought  Eleanor  as  she  rode  away.  But 
if  there  was  anything  harsh  or  troubled  in  her  mood  of 
mind,  all  nature  breathed  upon  it  to  soften  it.  The  trees 
were  leafing  out  again  ;  the  meadows  brilliant- with  fresh 
green;  the  soft  spring  airs  wooing  into  full  blush  and 
beauty  the  numberless  spring  flowers  ;  every  breath  fra 
grant  with  new  sweetness.  Nothing  could  be  lovelier 
than  Eleanor's  ride  to  the  village  ;  nothing  more  sooth 
ing  to  a  ruffled'  condition  of  thought ;  and  she  arrived 


AT     MKS.     POWLIS'S.  325 

at  Mrs.  Powlis's  door  with  an  odd  kind  of  latent  hope 
fulness  that  something  good  might  be  in  store  for  her 
there. 

Her  strange  and  repugnant  feelings  returned  when  she 
got  into  the  house.  She  was  shewn  into  a  room  where 
several  other  persons  were  sitting,  and  where  more  kept 
momently  coming  in.  Greetings  passed  between  these 
persons,  very  frank  and  cordial ;  they  were  aW  at  home 
there  and  accustomed  to  each  other  and  to  the  business ; 
Eleanor  alone  was  strange,  unwonted,  not  in  her  element. 
That  feeling  however  changed  as  soon  as  Mr.  Rhys  came 
in.  Where  he  was,  there  was  at  least  one  person  with 
whom  she  had  sympathy,  and  who  had  some  little  de 
gree  of  sympathy  with  her.  Eleanor's  feelings  were 
destined  to  go  through  a  course  of  discipline  before  the 
meeting  was  over. 

It  began  with  some  very  sweet  singing.  There  were 
no  books ;  everybody  knew  the  words  that  were  sung, 
and  they  burst  out  like  a  glad  little  chorus.  Eleanor's 
lips  only  were  mute.  The  prayer  that  followed  stirred 
her  very  much.  It  was  so  simple,  so  pure,  so  heaven 
ward  in  its  aspirations,  so  human  in  its  humbleness,  so 
touching  in  its  sympathies.  For  they  reached  her,  Elea 
nor  knew  by  one  word.  And  when  the  prayer  was 
ended,  whatever  might  follow,  Eleanor  was  glad  she  had 
come  to  that  class-meeting. 

But  what  followed  she  found  to  be  intensely  interest 
ing.  In  words,  some  few  some  many,  one  after  another 
of  the  persons  present  gave  an  account  of  his  progress 
or  of  his  standing  in  the  Christian  life.  Each  spoke  only 
when  called  upon  by  Mr.  Rhys ;  and  each  was  answered 
in  his  turn  with  a  word  of  counsel  or  direction  or  en 
couragement,  as  the  case  seemed  to  need.  Sometimes 
the  answer  was  in  the  words  of  the  Bible ;  but  always, 
whatever  it  were,  it  was  given,  Eleanor  felt,  with  sin 
gular  appositeness  to  the  interests  before  him.  With 


326  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

great  skill  too,  and  with  infinite  sympathy  and  tender 
ness  if  need  called  for  it;  with  sympathy  invariably. 
And  Eleanor  admired  the  apt  readiness  and  kindness 
and  wisdom  with  which  the  answers  were  framed ;  so 
as  to  suggest  without  fail  the  lesson  desired  to  be  given, 
yet  so  suggest  that  it  should  be  felt  by  nobody  as  an  im 
putation  or  a  rebuke.  And  ever  and  again  the  little 
assembl^ibroke  out  into  a  burst  of  song ,  a  verse  or  two 
of  some  hymn,  that  started  naturally  from  the  last  words 
that  had  been  said.  Those  bursts  of  song  touched  Elea 
nor.  They  were  so  plainly  heartfelt,  so  utterly  gla*d  in 
their  utterances,  that  she  had  never  heard  the  like.  No 
choir,  the  best  trained  in  the  Avorld,  could  give  such  an 
effect  with  their  voices,  unless  they  were  also  trained 
and  meet  to  be  singers  in  heaven.  One  of  the  choruses 
pleased  Eleanor  particularly.  It  was  sung  in  a  wild 
sweet  tune,  and  with  great  energy. 

"There's  balm  in  Gilead, 
To  make  the  wounded  whole. 
There's  power  enough  in  Jesus — 
To  save  a  sin-sick  soul." 

It  was  just  after  this  was  finished,  that  Mr.  Rhys  in 
his  moving  about  the  room  came  and  stood  before  Elea 
nor.  He  asked  her  "  Do  you  love  Jesus  ?" 

It  is  impossible  to  express  the  shame  and  sorrow  with 
which  Eleanor  answered,  "  No." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  be  a  Christian  ?" 

Eleanor  bowed  her  head. 

"  Do  you  intend  to  be  one  ?" 

Eleanor  looked  up,  surprised  at  the  word,  and  an 
swered,  "  If  I  can." 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  he  very  tenderly,  '*lhat  you 
have  a  right  to  that  '  if — when  Jesus  has  said,  '  Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  1 
will  give,  you  rest  ?' " 


AT     MRS.      FOWL  IS    S.  321? 

He  turned  from  her  and  again  struck  the  notes  they 
had  been  singing. 

"  There's  balm  in  Gilead — 
To  make  the  wounded  whole. 
There's  power  enough  in  Jesus 
To  save  a  sin-sick  soul." 

The  closing  prayer  followed,  which  almost  broke  Elea 
nor's  heart  in  two ;  it  so  dealt  with  her  and  for  her. 
While  some  of  those  present  were  afterward  exchang 
ing  low  words  and  shakes  of  the  hand,  she  slipped  away 
and  mounted  her  pony. 

She  was  in  dreadful  confusion  during  the  first  part  of 
her  ride.  Half  resentful,  half  broken-hearted.  It  was 
the  last  time,  she  said  to  herself,  that  ever  she  would  be 
found  in  a  meeting  like  that.  She  would  never  go  again ; 
to  make  herself  a  mark  for  people's  sympathy  and  a  sub- 
'ect  for  people's  prayers.  And  yet — surely  the  human 
mind  seems  an  inconsistent  thing  at  times, — the  thought 
of  that  sympathy  and  those  prayers  had  a  touch  of 
sweetness  in  it,  which  presently  drew  a  flood  of  tears 
from  Eleanor's  eyes.  There  was  one  old  man  in  partic 
ular,  of  venerable  appearance,  who  had  given  a  most 
dignified  testimony  of  faith  and  happiness,  whose 
"  Amen !"  recurred  to  her.  It  was  uttered  at  the  close 
of  a  petition  Mr.  Rhys  had  made  in  her  favour ;  and 
Eleanor  recalled  it  now  with  a  strange  mixture  of  feel 
ings.  Why  was  she  so  different  from  him  and  from  the 
rest  of  those  good  people  ?  She  knew  her  duty ;  why 
was  it  not  done  ?  She  seemed  to  herself  more  hard 
hearted  and  evil  than  Eleanor  would  formerly  have  sup 
posed  possible  of  her ;  she  had  never  liked  herself  less 
than  she  did  during  this  ride  home.  Her  mind  was  in  a 
rare  turmoil,  of  humiliation  and  darkness  and  sorrow;  one 
thing  only  was  clear  ;  that  she  never  would  go  to  a  class- 
meeting  again !  And  yet  it  would  be  wrong  to  say  that 


328  THE     OLD     HELMET. 

she  was  on  the  whole  sorry  she  had  gone  once,  or  that 
she  really  regretted  anything  that  had  been  done  or  said. 
But  this  once  should  suffice  her.  So  she  went  along, 
dropping  tears  from  her  eyes  and  letting  Powis  find  his 
way  as  he  pleased;  which  he  was  quite  competent 
to  do. 

By  degrees  her  eyes  cleared  to  see  how  lovely  the 
evening  was  falling.  The  air  sweet  with  exhalations 
from  the  hedge-rows  and  meadows,  yes  and  from  the 
more  distant  hills  too  ;  fragrant  and  balmy.  The  cattle 
were  going  home  from  the  fields  ;  smoke  curled  up  from 
a  hundred  chimney  tops  along  the  hillsides  and  the  valley 
bottom ;  the  evening  light  spread  here  and  there  in  a 
broad  glow  of  colour ;  fair  snatches  of  light  were  all 
that  in  many  a  place  the  hills  and  the  bottom  could  catch. 
Every  turn  in  the  winding  valley  brought  a  new  combi 
nation  of  wonderful  beauty  into  view ;  and  shadows  and 
light,  and  flower-fragrance,  and  lowing  cattle  along  the 
ways,  and  wreaths  of  chimney  smoke ;  all  spoke  of 
peace.  Could  the  spell  help  reaching  anybody's  heart  ? 
It  reached  Eleanor's  ;  or  her  mood  in  some  inexplicable 
way  soothed  itself  down ;  for  when  she  reached  the 
farmhouse,  though  she  thought  of  herself  in  the  same 
humbled  forlorn  way  as  ever,  her  thought  of  the  class- 
meeting  had  changed. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JJt  JEN    j 
3JSCHARG1MJR 

NOV  1  0  7978 


1979 


Form  L9-40m-7,'56(C790s4)444 


3155  Old  helmet 


009  616  841 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


PS 

3155 


AA    001  226  251    5 


v.l 


Ural 

ji  //     >-       s    S     t 


